Confidence Man
by jeanie2914
Summary: It wasn't unusual for Neal to get into trouble during an investigation, but this time he was in trouble before the investigation even began.
1. Chapter 1

_In case you missed the story tag, this is hurt/comfort. That's what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you._

 _I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter One**

"I swear to God I will _shoot_ you, Caffrey." Agent Rice had taken her eyes off the road briefly to send daggers in his direction. It wasn't the first time; he'd actually lost count. "Leave the radio _alone_."

When Agent Hughes told him he'd been requested to consult on a case and would be going to Albany for a few days, Neal had been ecstatic. A two-mile radius didn't give much opportunity to travel; learning he'd be making the drive instead of flying (there was a thing with his ankle monitor) made it all the better.

Until the part came when he learned _who_ he'd be riding up _with_. Not Peter, Clinton or Diana. Not even a random agent he'd never met.

Agent Kimberly Rice.

"But sir," Neal had burst out. "The last time I-"

"I'm well aware of what happened the last time," Agent Hughes interrupted. "Agent Rice admitted she'd mishandled things and was reprimanded for her actions." The agent's eyes drilled into his. "You're not suggesting we hold a lapse of judgment against her indefinitely, are you?"

Neal knew a trap when he saw one. If that _was_ what he was suggesting then, by implication, he had no right to expect anything different. And he had to admit, he was prone to what could be considered lapses in judgment and he certainly didn't want them held against _him_ indefinitely.

"Of course not, sir," he adjusted, sending a look of petition in Peter's direction. Surely he would intervene, offer to come along or better yet, make the drive to Albany himself. Two hours in the car with Peter wasn't a picnic but two hours with Agent Rice?

 _Last meal_ came to mind.

"It's just that she doesn't like me, sir." Neal realized he sounded like a middle schooler complaining about a teacher. "And," he continued, toughening up his tone, "considering she almost got me _killed_ the feeling is mutual."

"You're both professionals, Caffrey," Hughes snapped irritably. Neal felt himself puff up at the compliment. "You don't _have_ to like each other," the agent continued. "This is work, not a vacation." There was like a zero percent chance Neal would ever be confused on that account. "Once you get to Albany you'll be turned over to Agent Bevins, the agent in charge."

 _Turned over to?_ A moment ago he'd been called a professional; now he was simply property changing hands. Hughes giveth and Hughes taketh away; Neal felt himself deflate.

"That's the end of it, Caffrey," Hughes said firmly, quelling any further protest. His patience with Neal, as usual, was wearing thin. "Pack a bag and bring it with you tomorrow," he instructed. "Agent Rice will be here at four to pick you up."

That was it, then. Dismissed, Neal cast a hostile look at Peter who'd made no effort to help and left the office. He returned to the case files he'd been working on when he'd been summoned from the catwalk with the double finger point. He'd known then it couldn't be good, but being personally requested to work on a case, coupled with the idea of new scenery, had momentarily distracted him from the inevitable disappointment that was to come.

No amount of pleading that day or the following one had changed his fate; he was destined to ride to Albany with someone who viewed him as less than a person. Peter couldn't drive him up; he was in court for the next few days and Neal had been unable to beg, or even bribe Clinton or Diana into driving him up.

Of course, just as he always did when faced with less than ideal circumstances, Neal searched for a silver lining.

The trip to Albany via the Thruway was a little over two and a half hours; according to the map app on his phone, taking the Taconic State Parkway would take just under three. He pitched his idea to Peter the next day when he returned to the office while the hearing had been adjourned until two.

"There is no way in hell Rice is going to take the scenic route to Albany," Peter told him. "She's not going to want to be in the car with you one minute longer than she has to be."

"Ah," Neal replied. "But you know what they say, Peter, time flies when you're having fun."

"But it screeches to a halt when you're miserable."

"Exactly," Neal grinned, a plan having formed in his head. "And that's the point I plan to make to Agent Rice."

"Neal," he knew by Peter's tone a warning was imminent, "This is an opportunity to make a good impression on the higher-ups; don't jeopardize it with some childish plan to get back at Agent Rice."

Neal wanted to remind Peter that his _plans_ were never childish; they were intricate, complex and well thought out. It was his motivation that sometimes lacked maturity.

"I'd never jeopardize a chance to look good to the _higher-ups_ ," he assured him. "I just think the trip would be nicer if we took the parkway, that's all."

"Well, good luck with that," Peter replied, checking his watch. "Just do your job and stay out of trouble, Neal. How you behave reflects on the rest of us."

First, he'd been made to feel like government property being transferred and now he felt like a child being sent to camp with a stern warning to not act a fool.

Given a choice, he guessed he liked the latter better than the former.

So now, a day after he'd been informed of his trip and the unfortunate travel arrangements it required, he was sitting in the passenger seat of Agent Rice's silver Toyota. As anticipated, in spite of his list of well-researched virtues, she'd shot down his idea of taking the parkway instead of the Thruway. Now, he'd moved to part B of the plan.

In spite of her threat, Neal hit the seek button on the radio for what was somewhere between the tenth and fifteenth time since she'd refused to alter her route to Albany.

"I'm just bored," Neal replied, pausing a moment as if determining whether or not the station suited him. Of course what was on the radio was irrelevant; after fifteen seconds he hit seek again.

"Are you seriously going to do that the whole way?" Agent Rice was already beginning to crack.

"Probably so," he admitted with a sigh of feinted long-suffering. "Maybe if the scenery was more stimulating..." he let his sentence taper off and moved to the next station. He mentally counted off fifteen seconds then, waiting to catch the voice mid-sentence, hit the button again.

The interval between station changes needed to be long enough for a listener to engage in the content-be it a conversation, advertisement or song-but not long enough for them to find any satisfaction in it. It was kind of like Chinese water torture; a person could only take so much of it.

"Dammit Caffrey," she burst out after another forty-five seconds of drip-drip-drip, or rather _seek-seek-seek._ It _was_ an effective strategy. "You are such a _child!_ "

He'd been called so much worse. "If you mean I have an inquisitive mind," he replied with a grin. "I couldn't agree more."

 _Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen..._

"Today, in a stunning move," the sports announcer began, "Houston and Cleveland swung a deal for-"

 _Click._

" _Okay_ ," She surrendered in frustration. Apparently not knowing what deal was swung between Houston and Cleveland was the final straw. "You _win._ " He loved, loved, _loved_ to win. "Taconic State Parkway it is but if you touch that radio again _I swear I will kill you."_

He almost believed she meant it but since killing a borrowed CI would probably end her career, he didn't think she'd actually do it. As far as he could tell, her career was the only thing she cared about.

"Actually we both win," he replied. "It will be great; trust me, you'll thank me later."

"Two things I will never do, Caffrey," she growled. _"_ Trust you or thank you."

"You know what they say, Kimberly," the thrill of victory was only compounded by the look of fury on her face. "Never say _never_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Even though she wasn't a parent Agent Rice did have two younger brothers and knew it was never wise to give in to the demands of a willful child. And that was what Caffrey had been acting like ever since she'd told him she wasn't taking the Taconic State Parkway to Albany.

A willful, _annoying_ child.

The only character trait he possessed that outweighed annoying was tenacity. She had no doubt he would have continued incessantly switching the station every thirty seconds all the way to Albany. She hated for him to think he'd gotten the better of her but she wasn't being paid extra to put up with his crap. She was going to have to sacrifice something on this trip; either her pride or her sanity and in the end, she decided to save her sanity. Taking the parkway would only extend the trip by half an hour and if it kept Caffrey's hands off the radio it would be well worth the extra time.

She'd chosen wisely because, once she'd agreed to change her course, Caffrey had become the perfect passenger. He set the radio to a station she approved, settled into his seat, and took in the scenery in silence. At first, it felt strained; she was still irritated and his impertinent use of her name had made her blood boil but after a while, the tension eased.

She'd driven between the city and the state capitol several times over the years but she'd always taken the direct route. That was who she was as a person: _direct._ It was her philosophy, backed by simple physics, that shortest distance between where she was and where she wanted to be was a straight line. The only girl in a family of boys, she'd learned early she had to fight for what she wanted. If not, she'd be pushed aside time and time again. In her professional life, for the most part, it had served her well. In her personal life, not so much.

There was a reason her marriage hadn't taken; she and Devon had been incompatible. She was a straight line and he was a parabola. She'd worked hard to get into the FBI and was determined to prove she deserved to be there. Even though more women were entering the bureau as agents, most of those in charge, the AIC's and Section Chiefs, were still of the old guard; members of a men's club for the most part. Earning their respect was not an easy undertaking. If you were polite you were considered weak; if you were direct, you were considered a bitch. She'd decided a while back she'd just live with being a bitch.

She'd proven she was tough but still had to work harder than her male counterparts to be taken seriously. She not only put in more hours, she also took assignments no one else wanted and did whatever it took to get results. But the Bureau, like most everything and everyone, was not interested in what you _did_ , but in what you'd _done lately_. If she didn't stay sharp, focused and continue to deliver unarguable results, she'd quickly lose any footing she'd gained. Her career was her first priority; she'd made that clear to Devon from the onset. He said he understood, even admired her work ethics, but as time passed, he found it harder and harder to live with.

He enjoyed picnics and quiet walks in the park; he wanted her to enjoy them but she just didn't. She just wasn't wired that way. Even when she tried she failed because in spite of her best efforts to soak in nature, a panoramic view or starry sky, her mind soon wandered back to whatever case she was working on. Within a few minutes, she'd be going over files and statements in her head, looking for clues or connections that might lead to a break. More often than not it led to her making phone calls or, on more than one occasion, cutting the date short to follow a lead in person. Not that she could blame him, but Devon began to take her constant distraction personally.

Not only did she work all the time, he pointed out, but even when she wasn't physically on the job her mind was still there. She was never with him, not really, nor did she seem to want to be. He'd hoped things would change once they were married, that she'd find him at least as interesting as the criminals she pursued or as important as the cases she worked. But it hadn't happened. He was disappointed and frustrated and finally, before even making it to the one year anniversary, he'd had enough. She had no room in her life for anything other than her career, he'd stated bitterly, and he hoped it kept her warm at night.

It was the most direct Devon had ever been and then he was gone.

What did she do? How did she cope with the break up of her marriage, the jokes from her co-workers and the criticism from her family that followed?

She focused on work. She put in more hours, picked up a heavier caseload, and it paid off. She became a rising star in the Bureau, finally gaining some of the respect she'd worked so hard to earn. The only dark mark on her record came after Agent Burke and Agent Hughes lodged a complaint with her superiors over her handling of the Gless kidnapping. Her face still stung when she recalled the scathing comments and formal reprimand she'd received from her supervisor.

She admitted the gamble she'd made in letting Wilkes meet with Caffrey hadn't gone according to plan but in the end, the girl had been recovered and the kidnappers apprehended. She'd been raked over the coals for putting Caffrey in danger but she knew that wasn't the real reason Burke had been so furious. She'd read up on him; he did the same kind of thing all the time and instead of getting reprimands he got commendations. Caffrey hadn't liked working with her but at least she'd been upfront with him about his role in their arrangement; Burke let him believe he was actually a team member. The truth was he was a CI, a tool to be used regardless of which agent was doing the using and Burke's problem was that he didn't like having to share.

But that was fine. She couldn't work with someone like Caffrey on a regular basis anyway. Sure, he had good instincts and had shown there was some steel under those pretty cheekbones of his but he was still a criminal. Like a leopard, he'd never change his spots. He might have the Gless kid believing he was a knight in shining armor but she had no doubt his actions had been motivated more by self-preservation than heroism. People like him always looked after themselves first and others only when it served a purpose. He and Burke had come out of that smelling like a rose and she'd come out with egg on her face. Since then, she'd kept her nose to the grindstone, worked hard and closed several major cases. Caffrey, on the other hand, had tried to flee custody and spent five weeks in prison before Burke and Hughes got him reinstated. Then, rumor had it, he'd crashed an event at the Russian Embassy and threatened to kill a federal agent with an illegally purchased weapon. Even after that, he'd still walked away unscathed.

She, on the other hand, still had that one misstep hanging over her. She should be the lead in this case even if it had tracked to Albany but the powers-that-be wanted Caffrey to consult and, given her history with him, had insisted Agent Bevins be put in charge. That, too, had stung her pride. Bevin may have more years on the on the job but her closure rate was higher. This had been her case but now she'd be taking a back seat to him. She'd never worked with him and didn't know what camp he'd fall into; those who formed opinions based on her track record or those who automatically discounted her because she was a woman, assuming she'd gotten into the FBI under some quota requirement or, worse yet, by engaging in _field work_ of her own. She always dreaded working with a new group and this was no exception. Plus, this time, she'd have the whole Caffrey thing hanging over her.

The only plus in this was that she'd not be the one responsible for him; that would fall to Bevins and he was welcome to it. Hopefully, once things were underway, she wouldn't have to deal with Caffrey at all. She had little tolerance for him; he was self-serving, arrogant and juvenile. On top of that, he talked too much.

Except, strangely enough, for now. In fact, he'd said nothing since he'd asked if she liked the station he'd found on the radio and that had been well over half an hour ago. Finding his silence very _un-Caffrey-like_ , she glanced over to see if maybe he'd fallen asleep but he hadn't. He was awake, his eyes on the passing landscape. In spite of the fact that he'd gotten his way, he didn't look very happy. He was lost in thought, preoccupied with something and his frown told her it wasn't the beauty of the autumn leaves.

The first fifteen minutes after she'd picked him up, he'd talked non-stop about the Taconic State Parkway, telling her more about it than she'd ever wanted to know. Franklin D. Roosevelt, he told her, had dreamed of a scenic road through the Hudson Valley and was instrumental in getting the project underway. The route itself was designed by a landscape architect, she forgot the name but Caffrey had given it, to offer breathtaking scenic vistas. He went on about the grade, and other road building details she found less than interesting, finally ending his discourse by asking if they could take the parkway instead of the Thruway to Albany. This was the perfect time of year to drive it, he'd added with a smile, and it would only add twenty, twenty-five minutes to the trip, tops...

He'd sounded like a Travel Agent working on commission or one of those high-pressure time-share salesmen looking for a signing bonus. He should have gone into sales, she thought, he was a natural. It was still, in essence, a job for a conman but a completely legal one. Caffrey would have been great at selling things no one needed at prices no one could afford. Instead, he'd chosen a different career choice and so here he was; here they _both_ were.

But good salesman or not, she wasn't buying what he was selling and had enjoyed telling him so. He'd tried a couple more times to persuade her but she'd refused to engage. Then, he'd started with the radio.

Ten minutes later, she turned onto the Taconic, and fifteen minutes after that, her anger dissipating with the sound of soft jazz, she found herself actually enjoying the ride. Maybe it was the altitude or those vistas Caffrey had talked about, but the changing leaves seemed more vivid here than along the main highways she usually traveled. Or maybe it was just that she'd been forced to slow down and notice them. The road they were traveling had been built for views; not for expedience.

The drive _was_ nice but of course she'd never admit that to Caffrey; he was already too smug for her liking. In fact, she'd expected more childish gloating when he'd gotten his way. She'd also expected him to try to strike up some conversation as the trip continued, but so far, he had done neither. The silence, which she'd enjoyed for a while, now began to weigh on her. What was occupying his thoughts so completely? What was he _up to_?

Once more she looked across the console at her passenger; his brows were still drawn together but he now looked more queasy than contemplative.

"You sick or something?" She asked him abruptly.

Caffrey's head turned quickly, confusion replacing his half-sick-yet-pensive expression. "No, why?"

"You've not said anything since we got on the parkway," she replied, turning her eyes back to the road. The parkway had transitioned from four lanes into two several miles back and had become quite curvy. "Thought I might be taking the turns too fast to suit you."

It wasn't far-fetched. She drove like she did everything else and more than one passenger had complained. But on this highway, even she was obeying the clearly posted limits.

"Your driving is fine, Agent Rice," Caffrey replied. "I just thought you'd enjoy the ride more if I kept my mouth shut."

There was self-effacing humor in his voice and she couldn't help but smile a bit herself. "They said you were smart."

"I have my moments."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Once Agent Rice had veered from her route, Neal had for a time enjoyed the scenery along the Parkway, awash with the splendor of autumn color. The reviews he'd read had not exaggerated its well-lain course highlighting some of the best views in the Hudson Valley. He loved the city and the amenities it provided but Central Park was as close to the countryside as he'd seen in quite awhile and there was something about wide open spaces that simultaneously pleased and pained him.

 _Bittersweet_ was the answer when the phrase _both pain and pleasure_ was a clue for a crossword and he supposed it was an adequate description of how he felt whenever he gazed on a landscape, either in real life or in a painting, that was outside his reach.

As pleased as he had been for a chance to travel outside the usual two-mile radius he hadn't been keen on taking the Thruway upstate. It wasn't that I-87 didn't offer some excellent, albeit incidentally achieved, views of open spaces but Neal had taken it before; courtesy of the New York Department of Corrections. He didn't like to think about what the ride had been like that day, or what _he'd_ been like, half in shock and scared out of his mind. It was not his finest hour, to say the least, and he remembered nothing about the view. He'd been shackled hand and foot, herded like an animal and treated like one as well. His fellow passengers, sensing weakness and smelling fear, had entertained themselves by taunting him, giving crude and vulgar descriptions of what he had to look forward to upon his arrival at Sing Sing.

It wasn't a day he cared to remember and he knew a trip along the thruway would bring it all back to mind. He hoped taking an alternative route would help, and it had for awhile, but then the memory of that ride had flooded back, occupying his mind and dimming the view until Agent Rice's sudden inquiry shifted his thoughts back to the present.

She'd asked if he was sick and he'd said no; he hadn't really lied. His stomach was churning a bit but it wasn't her driving that had caused it. Although he knew the Agent didn't like him, she was still a better companion than those which had accompanied him on his last trek through upstate New York and at present, even better company than his own thoughts.

Now that she's broken the silence, he couldn't help but seize upon the welcome distraction to gather a little intel about what lay ahead in Albany.

"So, have you worked with Agent Bevins before?"

If riding with Agent Rice had been his first cause for concern and taking a familiar trip upstate had been his second, working with a new agent was definitely the next on his list.

"No I haven't," she answered. "Why?"

"Since you're going to be _handing me over_ to him," he kept his tone lighthearted, "I just wondered what his stance on CI's was."

"His department doesn't mind using them or they wouldn't have requested you."

"I'm well aware people don't mind _using_ me." His reply was sharper than he'd intended, her phrasing striking a bitter chord with him. "It's just the attitude they sometimes have when they do that I have a problem with."

"Look, Caffrey," she countered with equal sharpness, taking offense that _he'd_ taken offense. "I don't like you any more than you like me and I'm sorry you got banged up a little on the Gless case, but that _is_ what you signed up for when you traded in leg irons for that cute little ankle monitor." Her sarcasm, like her disdain, was apparent. "And I _did_ apologize," she added.

 _Banged up a little_ meant being tased and having four bruised ribs. She had apologized, sort of, for him getting hurt and also that Wilkes had slipped through her net in the first place. But she hadn't apologized for what had bothered him most about the whole ordeal; not that she'd used him as bait and almost gotten him killed, but that she'd treated him like a thing instead of like a person.

 _A tool in her belt,_ she'd called him.

It was insulting and demeaning and yet she'd seen nothing wrong with it, she still didn't. Unfortunately, her attitude wasn't the exception but pretty much the rule; even Peter somewhat subscribed to it. Neal was often reminded he was FBI property and could be used in whatever way Peter deemed necessary. But at least Peter treated him with some respect, like a person and not just an asset. In fact, he did it so well there were times when Neal forgot he was a criminal on work release. That was when he did his best work and when he enjoyed it most; when he didn't feel like a _tool being used_ but like a part of the team.

He'd told Agent Rice he worked better that way but she hadn't cared. She didn't care how he and Peter did things, she'd told him, she only cared about how he and _Agent Rice_ did them.

Working with someone new was always stressful and he wondered what to expect from Agent Bevins but there was no way to know. No one at White Collar had ever worked with him. Neal dreaded the awkward introductions. Usually, Peter handled those and he was always good to put Neal in the best possible light. He also believed in leading by example, not only Neal but other agents as well. He treated Neal with respect and expected others to do the same thing. Neal appreciated that but he'd never told him. He wouldn't have that this time, he wouldn't have Peter at all. He would only have Agent Rice and she didn't like him. Yet her opinion would carry weight with the other agents.

But it would be fine, he told himself. Even if they didn't respect him, they must respect his skills or they wouldn't have asked him to consult. Whatever their attitude, good or bad, he could handle it; after all, he'd survived Agent Rice. It was just a week, and then he'd be back at White Collar where he belonged. Whether he _belonged_ there or not, if Peter really considered him part of his team or if he just knew that was a way to get more out of him Neal didn't know. And he didn't _want_ to know. He felt like he belonged, like part of the team, and that was good enough.

Sometimes, in spite of what Mozzie would say, ignorance _was_ bliss.

He wanted to do a good job in Albany, not just to earn brownie points but to make his team proud; to make _Peter_ proud. Why that mattered more than impressing Hughes or Agent Bevins Neal didn't want to contemplate. He settled it in his mind by reminding himself that pleasing Peter kept him out of prison. Part of pleasing Peter meant not irritating Agent Rice.

Well, any more than was absolutely necessary.

With that in mind, he decided this wasn't something worth arguing with her about. She'd never understand nor did she want to.

"I know you did," he replied with resignation, turning his gaze back to the passing landscape. Maybe in silence was the best way to travel after all.

He thought she'd be pleased to let the conversation, as limited as it had been, die but apparently not.

"And I meant it, Caffrey," she said after a moment. "I _am_ sorry you got hurt." She almost sounded sincere. "I just wanted to get the girl back and thought that was the best way to do it."

"Getting hurt wasn't the problem," he said quietly, keeping his eyes averted. "It was that whole _speak-when-spoken-to,_ a Tool-in-my-belt attitude you had."

"Well, Caffrey," her tone was dry, "you _are_ a CI and-"

"I know that," he interrupted irritably. "But I work better when I know what's going on."

"I told you what you needed to know," she stated flatly.

"You didn't tell me I was the ransom," he pointed out, feeling his face grow hot. Again, he reminded himself he needed to let this go. It was a pointless discussion. "If you had, I'd have been better prepared, that's all."

Her pause was slight. "You still would have been willing to meet with him?" She asked, her tone a mixture of surprise and skepticism.

"If that's what it was going to take to save Lindsay, of course, I would have," he told her. "I wanted to get her back, too."

When she didn't immediately respond, Neal thought she, too, had decided silence was a preferable way to pass the time. But she must have just been processing because, after a few moments of silence passed, she again instigated conversation.

"So when you said you wondered about Agent Bevins's stance towards CI's," she ventured, sending a curious glance in his direction. "You wonder if he'll be like Agent Burke or like _me?_ "

"I don't expect anyone to be like Peter," he admitted. "He knows I've broken the law but he knows there's more to me than just that." He frowned slightly, hoping that was true. "But no matter what I do, or how hard I work, there are some people who only see me as a criminal. If Agent Bevins is one of those..," he shrugged.

"It will be a long week," she finished.

Neal was surprised to hear understanding in her voice.

"Yeah."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

She became aware of two things: pain and the smell of something burning.

Everything had happened so quickly. She and Caffrey had been discussing the case, she rounded a curve and there was a vehicle in her lane. A flashy, red, sporty one traveling well above the speed limit. She slammed on the breaks, turned the wheel sharply to the right but there had been no avoiding it. There had been the jolt of impact, a flash of light, and then nothing.

Until now.

Her face hurt, she could taste salty, coppery blood in her mouth, and the smell of burning oil permeated her nostrils. She opened her eyes; the airbag had activated and now lay like a deflated balloon on the steering wheel. There was thick smoke billowing from the front of her Toyota, burning her eyes and obscuring the view of the other vehicle. There was also an odd roaring sound but she didn't know if it was coming from her car or if it was just in her head. Somewhat addled, it took a moment for her to gather her thoughts, remembering that she wasn't alone.

 _Caffrey._

She looked to her right to see if he was hurt but he wasn't there. His airbag had also deployed but the door was open and Caffrey was gone. She stared at the empty seat. She couldn't believe it; it was her responsibility to deliver him to Albany and she'd let him get away from her. The man was determined to ruin her career. He must have seen she was unconscious and seized the opportunity to...

Suddenly her door was jerked open. Caffrey wasn't gone, he was here. She looked at him in shock, surprised to see him standing there, still in his jacket and tie, eyes wide and face bloody. His face, like hers, must have taken the force of the airbag. Blood was running from both his nose and lip, trailing down his chin and neck, already beginning to stain the white collar of his shirt.

"Are you hurt?" He sounded out of breath.

It took her a moment to reply. Now that Caffrey was accounted for, the shock of the accident was beginning to set in. _Was she hurt?_

"I...I don't know," she answered truthfully, feeling herself starting to tremble. "I think I'm-" she looked down. " _Stuck_."

It was true; the dashboard had been pushed forward, pressing against her so tightly she couldn't see her legs below the knees. Not only could she not see her legs, she couldn't feel them either. Fear rose in her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Caffrey reached across her and unfastened the seat belt, then dropped to one knee, tilting his head to look under the dash. She heard him swear softly under his breath.

"What?" Fear elevated her voice and her trembling grew more violent. She didn't feel any pain in her legs, only a heavy pressure. Even addled by shock she knew that wasn't good. "How bad is it?"

"I'm going to try to move the seat back," Caffrey replied, avoiding the question. "It might hurt," he warned, impatiently wiping the blood from his face with his jacket sleeve, "but once your legs are free, I'll pull you out."

It _was_ bad; she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. Her fear morphed into panic.

"No," she protested, both her head and her voice shaking. " _Don't!"_ She grasped the steering wheel with trembling hands, tears suddenly springing from her eyes. "Don't move me!" Part of her was mortified by her loss of control but a larger part was too afraid to care. It wasn't the pain that scared her, it was what she'd see once the seat moved back. She didn't want to see, didn't want to _know_. "Just _wait_ , wait until someone comes-"

"Kimberly!" Caffrey's voice cut through her panic, halting her words and drawing her eyes to his. "We. Can't. Wait," he said, enunciating each word. "There's gasoline everywhere; I need to get you out _now._ "

His tone left no room for debate and his calm command helped her regain focus. Smoke, the smell of something burning... _gasoline everywhere_. A new fear took hold and she now understood Caffrey's sense of urgency; he was afraid of fire.

There was more at stake than just her legs, it was her life. And Caffrey's as well.

"Okay," she conceded, releasing her grip on the wheel a bit reluctantly. "Get me out of here."

Caffrey acknowledged the order with a grim nod and leaned in. "Hold around my neck," he directed, his face inches from her own. It was odd and completely unexpected, but she was suddenly struck by the blueness of his eyes.

He took her hesitation for fear. "It's going to be okay," he encouraged gently. "I _promise_."

Eyes that had been fierce a moment before were now softer, more kind. She locked her arms around his neck as he moved his hand beneath the seat until he found the lever.

"Get ready," his voice was quiet in her ear. "One, two, _three._ "

The seat slid backward, releasing the pressure on her legs and sending a wave of pain throughout her entire body. She cried out but Caffrey didn't hesitate, pulling her from the car in one swift move.

Once on his feet, he adjusted his hold, the movement tearing another cry of pain from her lips.

"I'm _sorry._ "

This time it was his voice that shook and it held such remorse, such pity, that she buried her face in his shoulder. He swayed a moment, as if getting his balance, and then began to run, each step sending knives of pain through her. She was afraid she was going to black out, but then the jarring stopped as Caffrey's feet left the pavement and found softer ground. She heard voices; a man and a woman. Someone else had arrived on the scene.

"...you both okay?" A man was saying as she and Caffrey drew near. She could hear the panic in his voice. "I've called 911-"

"I think... her leg...is broken," Caffrey gasped out, winded by the run. She could feel his chest heaving and then his arms trembling as he lowered her to the ground. He'd brought her to the far side of the highway where an older couple, having exited their car, were standing on a grassy bank. She saw another car approaching from the north, slowing at the sight of the accident. No rescue personnel or highway patrol had arrived but according to the man, they had been called. The accident must have just occurred; she'd only been unconscious a moment or two after the collision.

Once Caffrey deposited her, she disentangled her arms from around his neck. Her eyes immediately went to her legs. She was afraid of what she'd see, but she couldn't help but look. She could see blood, a lot of it, and her legs felt on fire. But she couldn't see bone or...

Suddenly her view was obscured by a black jacket; Caffrey's jacket. He'd leaned down, his face flushed with exertion, and covered her legs. His once white shirt was dirty and stained with blood and his hair, now clinging damply to his forehead, was in total disarray.

"Don't look at it," he ordered firmly, his eyes darkly intense. "Keep it covered. Helps on the way." He got to his feet, his next words not directed at her but at the older couple.

"Keep her warm," he instructed, giving his still bleeding nose another swipe with his sleeve. "She's lost a lot of blood. Don't let her go into shock."

"You need to sit down, too," the man told him, putting a hand on Caffrey's shoulder. "You look like-"

The observation was cut short when flames erupted from the engine of the Toyota. Agent Rice watched in shock, realizing just how close she'd come to a horrifying end.

"He's still in there," Caffrey's voice was low, prompting her to turn her attention from the flames back to him. His eyes remained fixed on the mangled vehicles and Rice realized he was talking about the driver of the other car. "I've gotta get him out _._ "

"It's too late," the older man said sadly, his hand now gripping Caffrey's shoulder firmly. "There's no time-"

"Yes, there is." Caffrey had been remarkably composed, but now she heard desperation in his voice. "There _has to be!_ "

"Son, you can't-", the man began but stopped when Neal pulled away and stumbled down the slight incline towards the highway. As they watched in horror, the flame grew, now spreading to the engine of the other car as well. The sight of growing danger didn't deter Caffrey in the least. If anything, it only increased his speed.

"He's a damn fool." She heard the older man say as Caffrey moved full speed towards the flames. He knew, as she did, it was only a matter of seconds before both the silver Toyota and the red sports car were lost to the flames. If gasoline were leaking from either of the vehicles, an explosion was imminent. Agent Rice could feel the heat of the blaze from the fire from where she sat, several yards away. She couldn't believe Caffrey was running straight towards it. What the hell was he thinking?

 _Damn fool._ Her thoughts echoed the older man's sentiment.

"Caffrey!" She barked at his retreating form, trying to muster all the authority she could. But he either didn't hear or didn't care, not stopping until he'd reached the burning vehicles on the shoulder of the northbound lane. She could see him holding his hands up as if to shelter his face from the heat as he circled to the other side of the red car, disappearing behind a wall of thick, black smoke. " _Neal!_ " she cried out, terrified when she lost sight of him that she'd never see him again.

A blanket, red and black plaid, was placed around her shoulders; the woman had knelt on the cold ground beside her. A gentle arm rested on her shoulder, pulling her close. With her other hand, the woman pressed against her cheek, urging her to turn away from the scene before them.

"Close your eyes," she directed, her voice shaking with fear. "You don't need to see this."

The woman knew what was coming and so did she. Rice squeezed her eyes tightly shut, burying her face in the woman's shoulder much as she had in Caffrey's moments before. He'd pulled her from the car, had saved her life, and now was risking his own to save a total stranger. This was the man Lindsay Gless had called a hero and the man she'd called a tool in her belt, writing him off as selfish and self-serving. She'd been so wrong about him.

She heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Hopeful that help might arrive and extinguish the flames, she pulled her face away just as the air was rocked by first one then a second explosion.

The sound was deafening and debris rained across the highway, a smothering piece landing just inside the roadway not thirty feet away. What was left of the cars was now completely consumed by a blaze twenty feet high; the heat was intense.

"The poor boy," the woman whispered brokenly at her side. "I'm so _sorry,_ dear."

When she'd first regained consciousness, Rice had been afraid Caffrey had escaped, but now she wished that he had. She wished with all her heart he was far away from the burning carnage in front of her. She felt tears sting her eyes as emergency vehicles arrived on the scene.

Help had come but they were too late; Neal Caffrey was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Can you hear me?" A man's voice rang through the darkness. "Ma'am?" It had an insistent tone. "Can you tell me your name?"

Agent Rice opened her eyes in alarm; for a split second forgetting where she was before it all came back. The accident. The explosions. _Caffrey._

She was still on the ground, she could feel the dampness and cold but was now she was flat on her back; she must have passed out. Paramedics had arrived and were leaning over her, the blue and red of emergency lights reflecting off their name tags and badges. She tried to raise up, but a firm hand kept her in place.

"You need to keep still, ma'am," he told her calmly. "Can you tell me your _name_?" She was aware of activity around her; the sound of engines, shouting voices and radio chatter. She turned her head, trying to look around, to see who was there and what was happening. "Ma'am?"

She forced her eyes back to the man's face. "Agent Kimberly Rice," she managed to say, doing her best to keep her voice steady. "Federal Bureau of Investigation. My creds..." she began, her hand moving towards her belt before remembering her badge and gun were in the glove compartment of her car.

And her car was gone. So was Neal Caffrey.

"FBI?" The medic's face registered mild surprise at her announcement but for once she didn't take offense. "So the man who pulled you out of the car," he said, producing a penlight. "Was he with you?"

"Yes he was," she answered, feeling heavy dread settle on her chest. "I need to make a call. I have to let them know-"

"Is he a prisoner?" he asked, examining first one pupil and then the other. "Were you _transporting_ him somewhere?"

They must have found his body, seen the tracking device, added two and two and gotten four.

 _No matter what I do, some people still only see a criminal._ She felt the sting of tears at the memory; had she imagined it or had there been a pained look in his eyes when he'd told her that?

Upset at the conclusion they'd reached though she knew it was a reasonable one, her first response was an immediate _no,_ but she recanted a moment later.

"Yes." Technically, Caffrey was a prisoner and she was, in fact, transporting him. But there was more to it than that. More to Caffrey than that. " _Kind of_."

The medics exchanged quick, concerned glances and she realized she wasn't making sense. "Caffrey _is_ in custody," she explained, "but he's not my prisoner; he's on work-release. He works..." _worked?_ "...for the Bureau as a consultant." She swallowed the growing lump in her throat. "We were on the way to Albany for a case."

"Caffrey?" the man asked. "That's his name?"

"Yes," she replied, tears escaping her eyes and running down the sides of her face. "Neal Caffrey."

"Hey!" he shouted at someone in the general direction of the road. "The John Doe," he called out. "His name is Neal Caffrey, and he's with her; she's FBI."

"He saved my _life_ ," she said, her voice shaking as the tears continued to slip from her eyes, "and then he went back for the other man." She knew her voice was rising, that she was beginning to sound borderline hysterical but it was important they knew what he'd done. "He was trying to get him out when-" her voice hitched, "the car exploded."

 _Caffrey had died_ trying _to save the life of a stranger._ It went against everything she'd thought about the man.

That truth and the memory of that horrific moment hit her full force and then was followed by a quick succession of flashes of the moments that had lead up to it. Caffrey's animated expression as he tried to convince her to take the parkway and his teasing grin when he'd gotten his way. The thoughtful, almost pensive look on his face as he'd gazed out the window, lost in thought. How intensely blue his eyes had been when he'd told her they couldn't wait, that he had to get her out. How he'd encouraged and reassured her when he thought she was frightened. The dampness of his shirt, and the way he'd smelled of aftershave and sweat when he carried her to safety. His reaction when the bystander warned him there wasn't enough time to rescue the driver of the other and then, the way he'd clenched his jaw in determination to try before charging back across the highway to his death.

Overwhelmed with emotion she could no longer hold back, she felt herself break down. She was crying, sobbing and babbling, completely out of control. And for once in her life, she didn't care. She could hear the medics speaking to her, probably telling her to stay still or calm down, but she couldn't. She kept seeing Caffrey's face, that arrogant smile, those blue eyes, and then the explosion that had taken them away.

"Agent Rice!" She didn't realize she was flailing until a tight grip on her chin stilled her movements. " _Kimberly!"_ the medic said sharply. His tone pierced through her grief and she opened her eyes. " _Caffrey got the man out_ ," he said slowly and clearly, his eyes peering intently into hers. "They weren't in the car when it went up."

How could that be? There hadn't been enough time.

"What?" She asked, afraid to hope yet doing so anyway. _Was it possible?_ "Is he-" she hiccuped, " _alive_?"

"Yes," he assured her. _"_ Both of them are but they're unconscious and your boy didn't have any identification on him."

Her boy. Unconscious but _alive._ After the initial wave of relief, her concern returned. He may not have been in the car but he'd still been dangerously close to the blast.

"How bad...is he... hurt?" She asked, her question pierced by the hiccup of lingering sobs.

"I don't know," he told her, "but I do know he's being taken care of. Right now, my job is to take care of you and to do that I need for you to stay calm, do you understand?"

She _was_ calm; _now._ She just needed to see Caffrey.

'I'm fine," she insisted, trying again to get up. "I need to go-"

"Please, Agent Rice," he said, placing his hand on her chest. "You _need_ to be _still._ You have a compound fracture of your left tibia and-"

His explanation of her injuries was interrupted by the arrival of another medic. He was older and slightly out of breath. "Hey," he said, kneeling down. "What can you tell me about...is it Caffrey?"

"Yes," she said, her attention now centered on his face. "Neal Caffrey. How bad is it?" she asked. "How bad is he hurt?"

"Does he has any medical conditions or allergies we need to be aware of?"

"I...I don't know," she stammered, concerned he'd avoided answering her question. "Call the New York FBI office, White Collar Division, and ask for Agent Burke. He can answer any questions you have. _How bad is he hurt?"_ she asked again.

"Too soon to tell," he answered curtly. "He's unconscious and unresponsive but I understand he was conscious after the initial accident," he continued. "Did he seem disoriented or confused?"

"No," she replied. "He knew there was a danger of fire and was focused on getting everyone to safety."

"Thanks for your help," the man said with a nod. He started to rise but then stopped. "He's wearing an ankle monitor," he added, a slight frown on his face. "It's okay for now but they'll have to remove it once he gets to the hospital. It can't go into any imaging equipment."

"I have the key in my..." In her bag. _In her car._ "Nevermind, tell them they can cut it," she instructed. "Just call Agent Burke first. Tell him what's happened. He'll take care of things from his end."

"Agent Burke, White Collar," he recited. "Got it." Again he started to rise but this time her hand halted his movement.

"Please take care of him," she said, feeling the threat of tears. "He's made mistakes in the past but he's paid for them. Don't judge him by that tracking device. He saved lives today; judge him by that."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Peter entered the hospital lobby and proceeded to the welcome desk. He'd been told to check there when he arrived; they would be able to tell him in which area of the hospital to find Neal. The call from the New York State Trooper had been put through to his phone just as he was leaving the courthouse. The man identified himself by name and badge number and said he'd been called to the scene of an accident involving Agent Kimberly Rice and Neal Caffrey. Agent Rice had given his name to contact for information regarding Neal Caffrey.

Peter could hear the sound of sirens; his heart plummeted. Agent Rice had given his name, not Neal. "How bad is it?"

"Both sustained injuries and are being transported to St. George's Medical Center," the trooper informed him. "Agent Rice is conscious but Mr. Caffrey is not. The EMT needs medical information from you but I wanted to make you aware of the accident and let you know the tracking device Mr. Caffrey is wearing will have to be removed once he reaches the hospital." _Agent Rice was conscious; Neal was not._ Peter removed the keys from his pocket and unlocked the car door with less than a steady hand. "I'll have an officer stay with him until you arrive or make whatever arrangements are necessary for his supervision. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes, that's fine, thank you," Peter said, tossing his briefcase across the console and into the passenger's seat. Neal's supervision was the least of his concerns right now. "I'll call the monitoring service and alert the Marshals. Can I talk to the EMT?"

A moment later, another voice came on the line. "Agent Burke," the man began, "I need some information about Mr. Caffrey."

"Whatever you need." The man asked and Peter answered; Full name, birthdate, no known allergies or pre-existing medical conditions.

"Next of kin?"

" _What_?"

"The person he'd want us to call in case of emergency," the medic explained. "A family member."

Peter knew what it meant; the question and its implication had just caught him by surprise.

"Me," Peter answered. "I'm as close to family as he's got."

"I see." He realized how sad that sounded, even to the medic. "I assume you have access to his medical history?"

"Yes," Peter confirmed, "and I'll have it faxed to the hospital," Peter told him. "St. George's...?" The name had already escaped him.

"St. George's Medical Center, in Warrensburg."

"Thanks," Peter said, writing it down this time. "How bad is he hurt?" A myriad of gruesome images was flooding his mind, especially after the _Next of Kin_ question.

"All I can legally tell you is that his condition is serious but stable."

That was less than helpful. He knew HIPPA regulations and this EMT was apparently a stickler for rules. Peter understood. Most of the time so was he.

"Neal is my CI," Peter stated firmly, wishing he was there so he could flash his badge as an added illustration of his authority. "He's in _my_ custody and I _am_ his emergency contact; I'll have the paperwork verifying it waiting on you at the hospital. Please," he heard desperation slip into his voice. "I need to know; _how_ serious is serious?"

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "Honestly, Agent Burke," the man began, "it's too soon to say. He was unconscious and unresponsive when we arrived at the scene. External injuries appear superficial but he has a ruptured tympanic membrane-"

"A ruptured _what_?"

"Eardrum," the man explained. The sound of siren's that had been a constant suddenly sounded muffled. "And that indicates that he may have sustained other, more critical, blast injuries. They'll be better able to determine that once we get him to the ER."

"Blast injuries?" Peter was familiar with the term, it had been part of an Anti-Terrorism seminar he'd attended, but he was confused. "I don't understand."

"There was a fuel leak," the man explained. "Both vehicles exploded moments after impact. Mr. Caffrey freed Agent Rice and got her to safety and had just pulled the other driver from his car when the explosion occurred. Whatever else Mr. Caffrey may be, Agent Burke, today he was a hero."

That Neal had acted heroically didn't surprise Peter at all. In spite of bad choices and at times a questionable moral code, at heart Neal Caffrey was a good man. If he hadn't been, Peter would have never taken him on as a CI.

"We're pulling out now," the EMT said. "We'll be at St. George's in fifteen minutes."

The call ended and Peter began his own series of calls. The first was to the FBI Personnel Office, where he instructed them to send Neal's medical records, insurance information, and a copy of the document naming him Neal's health care power-of-attorney. Peter hoped Neal would soon be able to speak for himself but if not, it would fall to him to make decisions concerning his care until he could. The EMT had said Neal was unconscious and unresponsive and Peter knew traumatic brain injury was the most common type of injury sustained in a blast. He felt a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach; within the POA document, Neal had indicated he did not want to be kept alive by artificial means in case of brain death or irreversible brain injury. Peter prayed it would not come to that, that Neal's hard head had protected that brilliant mind of his. If it hadn't...

He pushed the thought away. There was no point in jumping to conclusions. As the man had said, it was too soon to tell.

His second call was to the monitoring service that managed Neal's anklet. He'd authorized deactivations before but this was the first time the reason given was a medical emergency. The next call he made was to the Marshals; he informed them of the situation and gave the name of the hospital Neal would soon be arriving at. The agent he spoke with was skeptical, and given Neal's history Peter couldn't blame him. He assured him this was real and not some scheme by Neal to get his tracking device deactivated. The Agent asked to be updated once he had reached the hospital and had more information about Neal's condition. The Marshal Service would arrange for a guard or provide another tracking device; they just needed to know which would be required to keep Neal secure.

His fourth call was to Agent Hughes, and his final call was to Elizabeth. Both asked questions he couldn't answer but Elizabeth was understandably more vocal in her concerns. Peter promised he'd call her as soon as he knew more, and programmed St. George's Medical Center into his GPS.

The ride was long and he struggled to keep his mind from going down a road he didn't want to travel. What if Neal didn't make it? What if his head trauma was severe, the damage irreversible? He kept trying to keep positive, but those thoughts kept pushing through. Finally, after just over an hour after he'd received the call, he arrived at St. Georges.

"Agent Peter Burke, FBI," he said, flashing his badge. "Two patients were transported here; Agent Kimberly Rice and Neal Caffrey."

The badge always helped. The woman checked the computer in front of her. "Rice, Kimberly. Condition Good, in room 240. Caffrey, Neal. Condition Serious. Listed as in the ER."

Peter frowned. "Why is he still in the ER?"

"It could be he's still out for tests or just that they've not updated his information yet. Check with them," she nodded down the hallway. "They can answer your questions."

"Thank you."

Agent Rice's condition was good; that meant she'd be able to tell him what happened but before he talked to her he needed to get more information about Neal. His conversation with the EMT had taken place almost an hour ago. Surely they knew something more definitive by now.

The ER, like every other ER he'd ever walked into, was somewhat of a madhouse. His badge got him buzzed in and he approached the desk, flashed his badge again for good measure and stated his reason for being there.

"Agent Peter Burke," he stated. "I'm here about Neal Caffrey; you should have gotten his records, and my paperwork, by now."

"Yes, sir, Agent Burke, she replied. "If you'll just take a seat with the officer, I'll let the doctor know you're here."

He followed her gaze to the uniformed officer sitting in one of the three chairs near the entrance. The officer, upon seeing him, rose to his feet.

"Daniel Kline," he said, extending a hand. "I was assigned to stay with Caffrey until you Federal boys showed up."

"Well here I am," Peter replied, giving the man's hand a quick shake of greeting. "Did you see him?" he asked.

"Just for a moment," the officer replied with a shake of his head. "They took him in for x-rays and wouldn't let me go back, but he didn't look in any shape to go anywhere. So what's the story with this guy?" the officer's expression was one of curiosity. "They talked like he was some kind of hero but if that was true, he wouldn't be wearing a tracking device and you and I wouldn't be here."

Peter didn't have a chance to respond. An older man, looking as if he were stretched pretty thin, approached them.

"I'm Dr. Tomilson," he introduced. "Agent Burke?"

"Yes," Peter replied. "How's Neal?"

"Right now, he's listed in serious but stable condition," he told him, casting a dubious glance at the officer before returning his gaze to Peter. "We're running a variety of test, to determine the extent of his injuries. He was involved in a collision, and then in an explosion," the doctor continued. "He suffered superficial injuries and minor burns but I'm more concerned about possible blast wave injuries." He leveled a look at Peter over his wire-rimmed glasses. "Are you familiar?" Peter nodded and the man continued, opening a folder he held in his hand. "His right eardrum is torn but so far, tests haven't shown pulmonary or visceral blast damage." Again he raised his eyes as if to make sure Peter was following him. "But these don't always show up immediately," he warned, "sometimes its hours later when they present themselves. He has a grade three concussion but CT scans have shown no signs of intra-cerebral hemorrhaging. He'll be sent up to the CCU to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. After that, if there are no changes, we'll reevaluate."

"Is he still unconscious?" Peter asked. The _unconscious and unresponsive_ description he'd been given earlier had not sounded good.

"Yes, he is," the doctor confirmed. "But that's not necessarily a cause for concern. We'll give it a few hours."

"And then?"

"We'll reevaluate."


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks to all who are following this story and special thanks to all who take the time to post a review._

 **Chapter Seven**

"How's Neal?" The question was asked before Peter was fully through the door of room 240. "Have you _seen_ him?"

Agent Rice's was sitting up in the bed, a look of genuine concern on her face. Her face was bruised, a seat belt burn was visible on the left side of her neck, both eyes seemed in the process of turning black and her left leg was in traction. If that was what the hospital considered good condition, he feared what serious would look like. "They won't tell me a damn thing."

"I haven't seen him yet," he replied, approaching the bed. "I went to the ER but didn't get to go back. Even the officer assigned to guard him was sitting in the hallway."

Her reaction to the officer was one of surprise but then she nodded in understanding. "I guess that's procedure," she looked away, her voice quiet, "but I didn't think even about it."

"Well," he said, eyeing the contraption holding her leg a good 18-inches in the air. "You had other things on your mind."

"Yeah, a _few_ things," she agreed. "Did you talk to the doctor?"

"I spoke with a Dr. Tomilson," he replied. "He said Neal's condition is serious but-"

" _Stable_ ," Agent Rice finished with clear irritation. "Yeah, that much I know, Burke. What I don't know is what the hell that even _means_."

Peter understood her frustration having experienced it himself just an hour or so before. Serious was a very broad term.

"He has a ruptured eardrum and a grade three concussion but the CAT scan showed no cerebral hemorrhaging," he told her. "The doctor said so far there are no signs of organ damage-"

" _Organ_ damage?"

Peter hadn't like the sound of it, either. "Yeah, from the blast wave," he explained. "But apparently it sometimes shows up later so its too soon to rule it out. He said they'd know more after twenty-four hours. They going to move him up to the CCU and once he's settled in," he finished up, "I can go in and see him." He nodded at her leg. "How about you?"

"Some cuts and bruises and a compound fracture of the tibia," she told him. "I'm scheduled for surgery in the morning. Is he _conscious_?"

Agent Rice wasn't interested in discussing her own injuries. Instead, she was still focused on Neal's.

"No," Peter told her, "not yet. But the doctor said there's no reason to worry; to give it a few hours. So what happened?"

"The guy was in my lane," she began, her voice low. "I tried to miss him but..," she shrugged. "Next thing I know I'm waking up, smoke is everywhere and Caffrey is _gone._ " She looked at Peter. "I thought he was in the wind," she admitted, "but then he opened my door and asked me if I was hurt."

"They said he pulled you out."

"He did," she confirmed. "I was trapped," she nodded at her leg. "My legs were pinned against the dashboard. He had to move the seat back to get me out. It hurt like hell." She took a breath. "He carried me across the road, away from the accident but then the cars caught fire. The heat was terrible but...," she paused, her eyes finding Peter's. "He ran _back."_ Her expression was one of disbelief. _"_ He went back for the other man _._ Both cars exploded and I thought...I thought..." She looked away, quickly wiping what Peter knew were tears. "I'll just feel better when I know he's okay, that's all."

She'd tried to toughen her tone but Peter had seen how shaken she was. He had the feeling she cried about as often as he did and disliked it equally as much. But she'd just been through a traumatic event. She had several injuries, including a broken leg and most likely had some pretty high powered painkillers in her system. Given the day she'd had, a tear or two was understandable. Of course, he knew better than to say such a thing to her.

He chose to treat her tears the way he'd hope she'd treat his; by ignoring them altogether. "I know," he said. "So will I. Hopefully we'll get some news in the next few hours. Do you know how the other guy is doing?"

"I asked about him but all they'd say was the same old thing," she replied. " _Serious but stable._ I did talk to the highway patrolman," she added. "He took my statement but said he didn't know when he'd get to speak to the other driver. I took that to mean he's in pretty bad shape."

"Well, thanks to Neal at least he's alive."

"Another minute and he'd have been dead," she said, " _both_ of them would have. I know we're trained to run towards danger but Caffrey?" She shook her head. "I still can't believe he risked his life that way."

"He risked his life to save Lindsay Gless," Peter reminded her.

"That was different," she contended. "He did save Lindsay but he was trying to save himself, too. That wasn't the case today. What he did today was..." she paused as if trying to find the right adjective, " _selfless_." Again she shook her head in disbelief. "I just didn't think he was the type that would do something like that."

"Only because you don't know him," Peter answered truthfully. "Believe me, there's a lot more to Neal Caffrey than meets the eye."

"So I've learned," she admitted quietly. "He's going to be okay though, isn't he?" She was looking for reassurance and Peter imagined the explosion kept playing again and again in her head. "I mean, he's young, strong, _stubborn..._."

Peter smiled at the last descriptive word, having said the same thing to himself several times since the call came in. "All of the above."

"I'll just be glad when he wakes up," she commented.

"The doctor said-"

"To give it time, I _know_ ," she finished with a sigh, sinking a bit deeper into the pillow. The events of the day, not to mention the medication, was beginning to take its toll. The agent needed to rest, and he needed to let her. Anyway, maybe by now, they'd let him in to see Neal. He, too, would feel much better once Neal woke up and spoke to him.

"I'm going to go up to the CCU and see if they'll let me in," he told her. "How about you?" he asked. "Have you called anyone yet?"

"I called my supervisor," she told him. "He's supposed to let Agent Bevins know what happened and not to expect us tonight. I told him I'd call back tomorrow and let him know what the doctor says." She scowled at her leg as if it were traitorous. "They said I'll probably be non-weight bearing for at least twelve weeks. That'll make me useless in the field but I told him I can still work my cases. I'll just be desk-bound for awhile."

"I meant a family member," Peter clarified, "or a friend; You know, someone to be here in case you _need_ something."

"Oh," she looked at him as if the thought had never entered her mind. "I won't need anything until I'm released. Then I'll have someone bring me a change of clothes and give me a ride home."

"You sure you don't want to call someone?" He asked with a frown. "You've been through a hell of a lot today."

There was only a slight hesitation before she replied. "Nothing some painkillers, surgery and a few weeks of physical therapy won't fix."

Her tone was flippant but Peter saw a hint of color in her cheeks. His concern had made her uncomfortable, and in that moment, she reminded him of Neal. Nothing put his CI at a loss as quickly as someone showing genuine concern for him; he simply didn't know how to respond. Apparently, that was something he and Agent Rice had in common. That, and a tendency to deflect unwanted attention with sarcasm.

"Really, Agent Burke," she added when he looked less than convinced. "I'm _fine_. Go check on Caffrey."

Something else she and Neal had in common; saying _I'm fine_ when it was obviously not true.

"Well, _if_ you need anything," he said, fishing his bureau card out of his pocket, "a paper, magazine," he glanced at the still covered dinner dish on the table, "something _edible,_ just give me a call. I'll be around."

"I appreciate that," she said, taking the proffered card. "So do you plan on staying with him?"

"At least until he wakes up and I know he's okay," Peter replied with certainty. "I have to be in court at ten in the morning but I should be done by noon and I'll drive back up." He turned to go. "I'll let you know how he is."

"It's not an act, is it?" Agent Rice asked the question just as Peter reached the door.

Confused, he turned back to face her. "What's not an act?"

"The way you treat him," she ventured, "like he's your partner, your _friend_ even _._ I thought it was just your way of handling him but it isn't." She searched his eyes. "You really care about him, don't you?"

She wasn't the first in the agency to think the guise of friendship he had with Neal was just a way of manipulating his CI and, for the most part, Peter let people believe what they wanted. It was better they thought his affection for Neal was just a managerial tactic rather than what it really was, a genuine friendship. A friendship between a handler and his CI was ill-advised and everyone knew it, including him. It wasn't something he'd planned; it had just happened.

Peter sighed. "He doesn't always make it easy but, yeah, I care about him." His relationship with Neal was complicated at best; even he didn't fully understand it. Sometimes he felt like Neal's rival sibling, other times like his father. "Like I said," he continued, "there's more to him than meets the eye. He cares about people, he always has, and underneath that conman exterior, he's a good person. I _know_ that."

The agent didn't dispute his words and, after the events of the day, he hardly expected her to. Neal _had_ saved her life.

"I know that too, _now,_ " she conceded. "I read his file and thought I knew all about him. But I was wrong. I _misjudged_ him."

Peter was sure such an admission was as rare an occurrence for Agent Rice as were tears. But it had been a hell of a day.

"I'm sure he'd _love_ to hear you say that."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Peter was buzzed into the CCU as soon as he gave his name and was met by a nurse as soon as he entered the double doors.

"Agent Burke," she greeted matter-of-factly. "Mr. Caffrey is in room 8 but your officer has already been shown back."

"He's not _my_ officer," Peter said, hating the fact that even after an act of heroism Neal was still, according to the law, a criminal. "Is Neal awake?"

"Not yet," she answered, "but his vitals are good so we're not overly concerned at this time. He was treated for cuts and abrasions and some minor burns," she told him as they passed room seven and rounded the corner. Officer Kline wasn't in the room with Neal; he was seated outside but got to his feet when he saw them approaching. "Don't be alarmed by the fact that he's on a ventilator," the nurse instructed as they reached their destination. "It's a precautionary measure to ensure his airway remains clear. So far, he's had no respiratory difficulties."

Although the nurse had warned him about the ventilator, the sight of Neal through the glass wall of CCU #8 still made his heart drop and his stomach knot. So this was what _serious_ looked like.

"Agent Burke," Officer Kline began but Peter waved him off, his eyes fixed on Neal's still body. The Officer, realizing this was not a good time, took his cue and, with a quick glance through the window at his charge, returned to his seat without another word.

It wasn't just the ventilator, although seeing a tube down Neal's throat was quite distressing, it was the whole scene. Neal, eerily motionless, looked small in the large bed surrounded by an array of machines. Peter took a breath, reminding himself that Neal had been lucky. Agent Rice had thought he'd been killed, that he'd perished in the blast and he easily could have. He could be viewing Neal, or what was left of him, on a cold slab in the morgue. This wasn't good, but it could be much, much worse.

"I know it's hard to see him like this," the nurse stated as she opened the sliding glass door to allow entry. "But it's standard procedure in cases like this. Once he regains consciousness, the ventilator will be removed."

Peter moved across the room to where Neal lay. Like Agent Rice's, his face was bruised but only one eye appeared to be blackening. There was also small cuts on his face that hers had lacked; he imagined they were some of the _superficial injuries_ that had been mentioned. And he was still, so still. Neal was _never_ still. Again, Peter took a breath to steady himself and reached down to take Neal's hand but stopped. Not only was his hand and forearm swathed in bandages, he was wearing wrist restraints as well.

"He sustained burns on his right hand and arm," the nurse explained. "Second degree, but they should heal in a couple of weeks with minimal scarring."

Peter had known about the burns; both the doctor and the nurse had told him. He didn't know about the restraints.

"Are these necessary?" he asked her, his eyes on the thick, wide straps fastened around Neal's wrists. His voice was husky with anger and emotion. "He's unconscious and there's an armed _guard_ posted outside his door."

"The restraints are for his protection," the nurse assured him quickly. "He'll likely wake frightened and disoriented. Those are to keep him from removing the vent tube and damaging his esophagus. It has nothing to do with," she cast a disapproving glance in the direction of Officer Kline, "his _legal_ situation."

Her words melted the anger that had swept over him and seeing as much, she resumed her duties.

"His personal item are in the drawer," she told him, sending a nod in the direction of the bedside table. "It's everything he had on him when he was admitted as well as the things he'd left with the other woman." Peter's blank look drew an explanation. "He used his jacket to cover her at the scene," she told him. "His wallet and cellphone were in the pocket." Her gaze again fell to Neal. "Seems Mr. Caffrey was quite the hero out there today."

It was the second time that word had been used to describe Neal today. Peter knew all the talk of his being a hero would please him to no end; he just wished he was awake to hear it.

"The other guy," Peter asked, finally finding his voice. "The one he pulled from the car. How's _he_ doing?" Peter doubted she'd tell him anything useful but he still asked. "He's _here,_ isn't he?"

The hesitation was slight. "Two rooms down," she confirmed. "Like Mr. Caffrey," her gaze fell to her patient, "his condition is listed as _serious but stable_." Just as Peter had expected; the vague, PR approved response. "His wife is in with him," she continued, "and she's very grateful for what Mr. Caffrey did. She's asked several times about him," she met Peter's eyes, "but as you know, _I_ can't discuss my patients with anyone other than a family member or other designated person."

He took her meaning; she couldn't discuss her patients with anyone other than their designated people, however, those people were free to discuss whatever they chose, with whomever they chose. If he wanted to know more about the man's condition, he'd have to go ask the wife. And she was two doors down.

"I'll check in later," she told him. "If he needs anything, or if you do, just press the call button."

"Is the doctor coming by?" Peter asked before she could exit the room.

"Not until morning," she told him. "But he's left his orders and instructed staff to notify him if there are any changes in Mr. Caffrey's condition. I'm afraid, right now, all we can do is wait."

"I'm not good at waiting." It was a true statement. "It makes me feel..." he searched for the word. " _useless._ "

Her smile was sympathetic. "I understand, Agent Burke, but that's where we are. We won't really know how he is until he wakes up and tells us."

"But when do you think that will be?" Peter heard the strain in his voice. The longer Neal remained unconscious the more worried about possible brain damage Peter became. "The doctor said a few hours and it's been a few hours. Why isn't he waking up?"

"I can't answer that," she replied, "but it's still too soon to be worried. Talk to him," she encouraged. "Let him know he's not alone. It might not seem like much, but it means more than you know; especially to people like him." Peter's head rose at her statement but again, her smile was kind but sad. "People without family, Agent Burke."

He guessed anyone who looked at Neal's file knew there was no family information listed and no next of kin. All he had for an emergency contact was the FBI agent who'd arrested him. Peter didn't usually give that much thought, how alone Neal was in the world, but now he did.

Once the nurse left he moved around to the other side of the bed, reached down and took Neal's hand in his own. It felt cold to the touch. He looked out through the glass wall; the officer was still in his seat. His back to the window, he appeared to be reading a magazine.

Peter leaned down and gave Neal's hand a squeeze. "I'm here, Neal," he said, just inches from the still, pale face. "You saved _two_ lives today; they're calling you a _hero._ " He waited a moment, hopeful his words might roust Neal from his unhealthy slumber. But nothing happened. Neal remained perfectly still.

With a sigh, Peter straightened himself, stepped over and pulled one of the chairs close to the bed. He took out his phone and sent a text to Elizabeth.

 _Can't call because I'm in the CCU with Neal. He looks pretty good considering. No major burns or broken bones. He's still unconscious but the nurse said not to worry. Don't wait up for me. I'll be late. I love you._

Just a moment later his phone buzzed.

 _I love you too, hon. Please give my best to Neal and be careful on your way home._

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Why is he still unconscious?"

Agent Rice's surgery had been a success and though she was being kept overnight, she was set to be released the next morning. Peter had told her there had been no change in Neal's condition but still, about mid-afternoon, she'd been pushed into Neal's room. Currently relegated to a wheelchair, her newly repaired leg extended in front of her, she'd insisted on seeing Neal for herself, and an orderly had obliged her. Peter imagined an insistent Agent Rice was hard to put off.

Peter guessed the expression on her face when she first caught sight of Neal mirrored his own reaction the day before. Being told something and seeing it for yourself were two different things. Even though he'd undergone that moment of shock before, Peter still had a sinking feeling when he'd arrived just after lunch and saw Neal, his condition unchanged, through the glass wall.

It had taken her a moment to speak and when she did, she'd asked the same thing Peter had upon his arrival. _Why is he still unconscious?_

"They don't know," Peter told her. "The nurse said he had another CAT scan this morning but it didn't show any changes." He glanced towards the door. "The doctor is supposed to be by to talk to me."

"Any word on the driver of the other car?" She asked the question but her eyes were still fixed on Neal.

"He woke up last night," Peter told her. "I talked to his wife just a while ago. He's expected to make a full recovery. She came by to see how Neal-"

As if by cue, there was sudden movement from Neal. Relieved by signs of life, Peter quickly got to his feet and pressed the call button. He then placed a reassuring hand on Neal's shoulder. The nurse had said Neal would likely wake frightened and he had; his eyes were wide with terror.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter told him. " _You're_ okay." Gagging on the tube, he pulled against his restraints, his eyes darting around the room frantically. "There was an accident," Peter explained, trying to calm him. "You're in the hospital."

His words didn't seem to register. Disoriented and confused by his state, Neal's panic grew. His struggle against the restraints became more desperate. Peter tried to calm him, to reassure him, but nothing helped. He was relieved when Dr. Tomilson and two others entered the room. He stepped out of their way.

"Thank God he's awake," Agent Rice stated quietly. Peter nodded in agreement, hoping the doctor would have better luck at calming Neal than he had.

"Mr. Caffrey," the doctor's voice was firm as he too placed a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Don't fight," he instructed, leaning down to capture Neal's attention."Take slow, even breaths." The doctor's calm instructions must have penetrated Neal's disorientated mind because his struggle slowed and then ceased. "That's it," the doctor nodded encouragingly, keeping his face in Neal's line of sight. "Slow and easy. You're on a ventilator," he explained, his voice clear and patient. "I know its uncomfortable and feels like you aren't getting any air but you _are_ ; just relax and breath slowly."

Peter could tell it was working but then there was a grunt, another gagging sound, and the look of panic returned to Neal's face.

"Don't try to talk," the doctor told him. "I want you to listen." His tone was firm, authoritative. "Now that you're awake, we can remove the breathing tube. I want you to blink once if you understand what I'm saying."

Peter saw the quick blink. Neal understood; that was a good sign.

"Okay then," the doctor said, exchanging non-verbal communication with the nurse across the bed from him. She unhooked the tube from the machine. "All right." The doctor gripped the tube near Neal's mouth. "When I tell you to, I want you to breath out hard, okay?" Again, a quick blink confirmed understanding. Peter was glad the tube was coming out but he didn't want to see it; he diverted his eyes. " _Go._ "

"Good, Neal," the nurse encouraged over the sound of his gagging. "Keep still...almost done..."

"There you are," the doctor announced, signaling the task was complete. "Okay, breathe..." Neal was no longer gagging. Instead, he was coughing, sputtering and gasping for breath. "You're okay," the nurse encouraged. "Relax... Breathe... Take it easy. That's it."

When Neal seemed to have regained both his breath and composure, Peter stepped up to the bed. Neal's eyes immediately found his.

"Did I get her out?" Neal's voice was breathless and raspy; his eyes searching. "Is she _oka_ y?"

It was good to see him _sans_ face mask and breathing tube; good to hear his voice. "Yeah, Neal," Peter assured him, unable to keep the smile from his face. "You got her out. She's-"

" _fine,_ " Agent Rice inserted moving her chair closer so Neal could see for himself. "Broken leg but I'll heal. Thanks to you."

Instead of relief, Neal's expression was one of confusion. "I don't understand," he whispered hoarsely, tearing his eyes from Agent Rice's face to find Peter's once more. "What _happened?_ " Confusion gave way to distress. "Where's _Kate_?"

The question hit Peter like a punch in the gut. Neal wasn't the only one looking to him for an answer; the doctor, nurses and Agent Rice were as well but Peter was too stunned to reply.

"Where is she, Peter?" Neal asked again, voice rising in desperation. " _Where's Kate?_ "

Peter realized what was happening. Neal was confusing this explosion with the other one; the one that had killed Kate Moreau.

" _God,_ Neal," Peter breathed almost under his breath at the realization. "Kate's..." he stopped, unable to bring himself to say the word. He reached down and took Neal's hand in his own and squeezed it in sympathy. "I'm _sorry."_ His voice held both pity and regret. "That was over a year ago and-."

"No," Neal said sharply, snatching his hand away. He shook his head in denial of what Peter was trying to convey. " _No_!" he repeated louder, now pulling against the straps that still bound his wrists. "It's not true. She's not-"

Suddenly, Neal stiffened, his eyes rolling back in his head. A second later, his body arched.

"He's seizing!" the doctor's tone was one of alarm; he pulled the pillow from behind Neal's head and placed two hands firmly on his shoulders. To Peter's horror, Neal continued to writhe on the bed, only the whites of his eyes showing, as monitor alarms started to sound. "Lorazepam, 10 mg, stat," the doctor ordered above the chaos. "And get them out of here."

"Agent Burke," one of the nurses began but Peter was already moving.

"I _know_." He grasped the handles of the wheelchair and maneuvered Agent Rice towards the door.

He heard the sound of the privacy curtain being pulled and as soon as he cleared the doorway, the nurse slid it closed behind him, cutting off the sounds of the emergency in room #8.

 _ **Author's Note:** Happy Monday! I'm sorry to leave you guys hanging but it's just the way the chapters fall. Next update, barring death or disaster, will be Friday morning. Until then, thanks for reading, following, favoriting, and posting reviews. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"What happened?" The officer posted outside Neal's door was on his feet, a look of concern on his face. His name was Davison; he'd introduced himself when Peter arrived.

"I don't know," Peter's voice was unsteady. The sight of Neal convulsing had shaken him. "He's having some kind of seizure."

"He asked for Kate," Agent Rice said as Peter pushed her past the officer and situated her on the other side of his chair. "Wasn't she the girl he escaped prison for?"

"Yeah," Peter said, looking through the glass wall although the privacy curtain hid Neal from view. "Kate Moreau. She's also who I used as bait to catch him. He was looking for her then, too."

"Elusive girl," Agent Rice commented. "So what happened to her?"

Kate was more elusive now than she'd ever been. "She's dead."

The statement brought Peter no pain; he'd never liked Kate. He hadn't liked the way she manipulated Neal, toyed with his emotions. Neal loved her, deeply and desperately and would do anything, would _risk anything_ just to be with her. Neal lost all sense of reason where she was concerned and once Peter realized that he knew he'd found the way to finally catch the elusive Neal Caffrey. And he had. He'd used Neal's blind spot, his love for Kate, to trap him. It hadn't been anything personal, it was just his job. Still, knowing what he did now, knowing Neal like he did now, it wasn't something he was particularly proud of having done.

Even after Kate was killed Peter hadn't been able to muster much sympathy for her. The only sympathy he'd felt had been for Neal.

"I gathered as much," Agent Rice's tone was tinted with sarcasm. "Care to elaborate?"

"Not really," he said wearily. "I'm sure you heard about the incident at the hangar last year." He met her eyes. "The explosion."

He was sure she had; it had been the talk of the building for weeks. There had been a variety of stories circulating, none of which had been altogether correct.

She nodded. "Didn't get a lot of the details, though. It was all hushed up pretty fast."

"Kate was on the plane when it went up," he related.

The slight widening of her eyes and parting of her lips told him she hadn't heard that. "I heard Caffrey attempted to flee custody but I didn't know-"

"He wasn't trying to flee custody _,_ " Peter corrected sharply. "Agent Fowler told him the Bureau was offering him a deal. Fowler told me the same thing," he insisted. "All the paperwork seemed in order. It wasn't until later we found out differently. Neal thought it was FBI sanctioned, that he and Kate were finally going to be together."

 _You get to go back to your life and I get to have one._ Peter would never forget that day. Not just the explosion but the brief exchange he'd had with Neal before and the way he'd fallen apart in his arms afterward.

"Then everything blew up in front of him," he finished. Figuratively and literally.

"Damn," Agent Rice said quietly. "After all that time looking for her, to finally find her and..." she let her sentence trail off.

"He tried to run into the flames," Peter told her. "There was no use; Kate was already gone but he didn't care." He shook his head at the memory. "I had to hold him back or he would have died that day, too."

Agent Rice offered no comment but, like Peter, continued to stare through the glass though there was nothing to see. They couldn't even _hear._ All they could do was wait. And hope.

"So when he asked you if he got her out," Agent Rice ventured. "If she was safe..." Her voice dropped. "He meant _her_ , not me."

"He's confused," Peter replied. "I think he flashed back to-" The blue curtain was suddenly pulled open.

Whatever had happened was over; Neal lay still on the bed. His eyes were closed but the monitor showed his heart rate, respiration, and blood pressure; he was alive.

"Is he okay?" Peter asked as the doctor exited the room. "What the hell just happened?"

"He suffered a seizure," the doctor told him. "I've ordered another CAT scan and an EEG to be sure, but I don't believe it was neurological. I believe it was a pseudoseizure."

"A what?" Peter was too tired for medical terminology.

"A seizure that mimics an epileptic seizure but isn't one," he explained. "They're called psychogenic nonepileptic seizures." At Peter's blank look the doctor continued. "They are brought on by severe stress or emotional trauma. He was very agitated," he stated. "He asked about someone named Kate?"

"Yeah, Kate Moreau," Peter said uneasily. "She was his girlfriend. She was killed in an explosion a little over a year and a half ago."

"An explosion?" The doctor frowned. "Was Mr. Caffrey there?"

"We both were," Peter told him. "Why?"

"I saw in his prison medical records that he'd been treated for secondary and tertiary blast injuries but I assumed it had been a prison incident."

"No," Peter shook his head. "It didn't happen in prison. It happened on an airfield. Neal and Kate were planning to leave together but their plane exploded. Kate was on it. Neal was not." He glanced at Agent Rice. "He took it pretty hard."

"I see," the doctor said, nodding his head slowly in understanding. "I guess that's why he was placed on suicide watch then and why he reacted so strongly now."

"What?" Peter looked at the man in surprise.

"It's possible the explosion yesterday triggered memories from the previous one," the doctor explained. "He was hurt and his girlfriend killed. The stress of reliving such a traumatic event could very well have caused his seizure."

That explained the seizure but it wasn't the answer Peter was looking for.

"You said he was on suicide watch," he pressed. "For how long?"

He'd heard stories about what being on suicide watch was like in prison. It was a horrible, humiliating experience that a person was subjected to when at their lowest and most vulnerable. If a person wasn't suicidal before, he'd been told, they would definitely be so afterward. Peter hated Neal had gone through it, but he hated more than he hadn't known.

"According to the records, for seventy-two hours." Peter stared at the man in disbelief. He'd never been told that; not by the prison, not by Agent Hughes, not even by Neal. "The first twenty-four were spent in the infirmary; the remaining hours in a special cell. After that, he was reevaluated by the prison psychiatrist and the order was lifted."

Peter had hated the way Neal had been treated after Kate's death. In spite of his very animated protest, the US Marshals had immediately taken Neal into custody with little concern for his physical or mental wellbeing. Agent Hughes placed a few calls and told Peter Neal was okay; that his injuries were minor. Agent Hughes might have known about the suicide watch but he hadn't told him. Probably because there wouldn't have been a damn thing he could have done about it. Peter wasn't allowed to visit or even speak to Neal until the investigation was completed. Once he and Neal were cleared, he'd immediately petitioned for Neal's work agreement to be reinstated. When he had the all clear, he'd paid Neal a visit and made his offer. He'd expected Neal to jump at it but he hadn't. He'd been confused by Neal's refusal and concerned about his state of mind after losing Kate. He'd asked Mozzie to talk to him, to make him see reason, and the little guy had come through. A week later, Neal was back at White Collar.

In spite of Neal's insistence that he was fine, Peter knew he wasn't. There was no way he could be. He knew Neal had been through a lot but he hadn't known about the seventy-two hours he'd spent under suicide watch.

"So what happens now?" Peter asked. "What are you doing for him?"

"I'm sending him for tests to make sure there have been no neurological changes but I'm afraid we're back to waiting Agent Burke," he said regrettably. "Given the circumstances, we're keeping the restraints in place for now," he continued, "just as a precaution. You can go back in with him now if you'd like."

Agent Rice had been sitting quietly but now she spoke, posing a question of her own. "A precaution against what?"

"Self-harm."

Peter had seen Neal in some very dark places and had sometimes worried he might try to outrun his problems but never in such a permanent, irreversible way as suicide. "You really think he could _hurt_ himself?" he asked in disbelief.

"I don't know what to think," the doctor admitted, looking back at his patient. "But until he wakes and we determine his state of mind, I think it's best to err on the side of safety."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"I don't _understand_ ," Elizabeth said, watching as Neal slept yet another afternoon away. "Why won't he wake up?"

That was the question everyone had been asking for almost a week. Him. Agent Rice. Agent Hughes. But no one had a good answer.

Elizabeth left work early and had been with Neal since mid-afternoon; Peter had driven over after leaving the office. The duty nurse said Dr. Adams would be by around seven to check on Neal so he and Elizabeth grabbed a bite in the cafeteria before returning to Neal's room to wait. Peter had met Dr. Adams briefly on Friday when, thanks to Agent Hughes, Neal had been transferred from St. George's in Cortland to Bellevue in Manhattan.

When Neal's condition hadn't changed by Friday, Peter had asked Hughes if Neal could be moved to a hospital in the city. St. George's was over an hour away and Peter's exhausted state was a testament of what making that drive on a daily basis would do to a person. Plus, he pointed out, if Neal was in the city he could be equipped with an anklet and a guard would not be necessary. Of course, a guard was really wasn't necessary anyway since Neal was both unconscious and, if someone wasn't with him, restrained but the Marshal Service still insisted on keeping one posted outside his door.

"I'll call the DOC and see if I can arrange it," Agent Hughes told him, "but you need to realize if this persists, if Caffrey _doesn't_ wake up, they're going to want to move him to the prison infirmary. I know," he held up a hand to stop Peter's protest. "I don't like it either but it comes down to simple finances; it's cheaper to keep him there."

That's all the DOC saw it as; a financial decision. Not someone's life.

"Well, it won't come to that," Peter said firmly. "It's only been a few days. Give him some time."

"It's not up to me," the older man said with a sigh. "It's up to the Department of Corrections. But I'll see what I can do about getting him moved." The perpetual frown on Hughes' face deepened. "Take the rest of the day off," he said. "Get some rest. You look like hell."

It was only mid-day but Peter was tempted to take his boss up on the offer. It had been a long week. He _was_ physically tired, sure. The drive each day, the long hours and early mornings had worn him out, but the kind of tired he felt most keenly was the kind sleep didn't help. The only thing that was going to relieve his mental exhaustion was for Neal to wake up and be okay.

"I might do that," Peter replied wearily. "Will you let me know about Neal? If and when and _where_ they move him?"

"Sure," Hughes nodded. "I'll let you know as soon as I do."

Peter thanked him but before he exited the office, he turned back. "When Neal was sent back to prison after the hangar incident," he began. "They had him on _suicide_ watch. Did you know?"

Agent Hughes lips made a thin line. "I knew."

"You didn't tell me." Peter tried to keep his tone non-accusatory.

"You didn't need to know," his boss stated unapologetically. "There was nothing you could do about it."

Hughes was right; he couldn't have done anything about it. "I still should have known."

"I disagree," Hughes said shortly. "It would have only made things harder."

Hughes was not wrong. Those weeks had been difficult enough as it was. The investigation. The questions. Being cut off from contact with Neal. Going over those last moments on the tarmac again and again. If he'd known about the suicide watch, about what Neal was being subjected to, it would have made things exponentially worse.

 _For him._ It was already exponentially worse for Neal

"Okay, maybe so," Peter conceded, "but once he was back, you should have said something." This time he was unable to keep the disapproval from his voice. "As his handler, I should have been told."

Agent Hughes' eyes narrowed, not appreciating the tone his subordinate was taking. "Caffrey was given a clean bill of health physically and mentally," he stated flatly. "If he hadn't been I wouldn't have signed off on his return."

Peter was too tired to argue and even if he hadn't been, it was never a smart move to argue with his section chief. Seeing the futility of continuing the discussion, he sighed in resignation.

"I know that, sir." Weariness came through in his voice. "I just wish I'd known. Not just because I'm his handler but because I'm his..." he stopped short, knowing he couldn't say what he'd almost said and especially not to his superior.

But the look on Hughes' face told him he didn't have to say it; he already knew.

"I'm just worried about him, that's all," Peter finished.

"I know you are," Hughes replied. "So am I." He shrugged at Peter's look. "What can I say? The kids started to grow on me. But don't quote me," he added, "or I'll deny it. Get some rest, Peter," he reiterated. "And I'll see if I can get Neal moved a little closer to home."

Peter had gone home, Hughes had made the call and Neal had been transferred to Bellevue that very afternoon. Fifteen minutes from the office, half an hour from the Burke house, it made things much easier. Elizabeth had been able to visit, as had June, Jones, and Diana. Even Agent Rice, on crutches, had stopped by, leaned down and ordered Neal to open his eyes. Neal had, of course, not responded but Peter appreciated the effort. She hadn't stayed long; Peter could tell seeing Neal in such a state bothered her. As far as he knew, Mozzie hadn't made an appearance, but even if he did, it would probably be incognito and under the radar. That was just Mozzie's way.

It had been three days since Neal's transfer and there still had been no change in his condition. Since he was considered stable, he'd been placed in a step-down room. Still monitored more closely than a regular patient room, it was larger and provided more privacy than the fishbowl setting of the CCU. Elizabeth and June had brought in a few things to make the space more friendly but so far, the changes had only benefited Neal's visitors; he had yet to open his eyes.

So he had no answer for Elizabeth; no one did.

"Agent Burke," Dr. Adams entered the room. "Good to see you again."

"Dr. Adams," Peter said, getting to his feet. Elizabeth followed suit. "This is my wife, Elizabeth."

The doctor gave Elizabeth a perfunctory nod of greeting and approached his patient. "Any noticeable changes?"

"I'm afraid not," Elizabeth responded as the doctor removed a penlight from his pocket. "Just the same as he was yesterday." She watched him examine Neal's pupils in a confident and deft manner. "And the day _before_." Peter shared her frustration. "And the day before _that._ "

The doctor sent her a sympathetic look, then took Neal's hand in his own. He placed it palm down on his own hand, then pressed the end of the penlight hard onto the nailbed of Neal's index finger. Neal's hand recoiled. It was the first movement Peter had seen since Neal's brief encounter with consciousness at St. George's. He and Elizabeth exchanged hopeful glances.

"That's what we call a _purposeful movement,"_ the doctor explained, placing Neal's hand back on the bed. "It means he's responding to painful stimuli." He returned the instrument to his pocket. "His pupils are reactionary and all his scans and labs have come back completely normal."

Elizabeth looked from the doctor's face to Neal's placid one and echoed her earlier statement. "I don't understand," she shook her head in question. "If everything is normal, why is he still _like_ this?"

The doctor frowned. "I'm afraid the only person who knows the answer is Mr. Caffrey," he replied. "I agree with the assessment from St. George's; this is no longer a neurological issue, its a _psychiatric_ one."

"You think its a mental health thing?" Elizabeth asked doubtfully.

It wasn't the first time Peter had heard that theory; the word psychosomatic had been tossed around several times since Neal's seizure. Dr. Adams and the psychiatrist he'd called in to consult on Neal's case had agreed to remove the restraints as long as someone was in the room with him at all times. When friends were able to be there, they sat with him. When they were not, the hospital provided a volunteer.

"Mental, emotional," the doctor confirmed. "All I know is that sometimes a patient just doesn't _want_ to wake up. And that seems to be the case with Mr. Caffrey."

Peter saw the shine of tears in Elizabeth's eyes before she diverted them, taking Neal's now limp hand in her own. "So what do we do?" she asked, eyes downcast. "How do we _change_ that?"

"Keep doing what you're doing," the doctor told her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Let him know people care, that people want him to come back." He studied Neal thoughtfully. "On some level, he hears you, is _processing_. Hopefully," he added. "in time, he'll listen."


	11. Chapter 11

_Updating a day early because my weekend is going to be insane. Fashion Show Friday night and Museum Exhibit opening Saturday morning. Please, if you like the_ chapter at all, _post a review. I need all the positive vibes I can get. :)_

 **Chapter Eleven**

Even though Agent Rice hadn't expected to see Caffrey upright and conscious, she still felt disappointed when she pushed open the door to his room and saw him lying there. Burke had promised to call when he woke up, and she hadn't heard from him, but some small part of her hoped maybe he had just forgotten; after all, she wouldn't be top on any list of people he considered Caffrey's friends. She wouldn't be on the list at all.

She'd had a two-forty-five at the orthopedic specialist's office across from the hospital, and since she was close by already, she'd decided to stop in and see Caffrey. The bruising on his face had faded, and the small cuts had healed; other than that, he looked the same as he had when she'd seen him on Saturday. She hadn't stayed long that day. Burke and his wife had been there, and she'd felt out of place. What she'd come to say to Caffrey she couldn't say.

But now that she was alone with him she could. She leaned down and spoke in a low voice.

"Listen, Caffrey," she said, placing her hand on his. It felt awkward but she'd expected nothing less. "I'm only going to say this once; I was wrong." Those words had never come easily to her. "I was wrong about you, about what kind of man you are." She shook her head. "I hate when people make up their minds before they even meet me but that's exactly what I did to you." She felt her throat tighten with emotion; she'd cried more in the past week than she had in a year. First, she'd blamed it on shock and then on Percoset but she hadn't taken a pain pill in four days. She swallowed hard, her eyes stinging with tears. "I'm _sorry,"_ she said, squeezing the still hand beneath hers, "and I want to thank you for-"

Surprised to hear movement behind her, she stopped and quickly withdrew her hand. She'd thought Caffrey was alone but apparently he was not. A well dressed black woman had emerged from the bathroom.

"I'm sorry, dear." The woman seemed as surprised to see her as she was to be seen. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Feeling her face flush, Agent Rice swiped her eyes hastily. The only thing worse than having an emotional moment was having a _witness_ to it.

"No, it's fine," she replied hastily. " _I'm_ sorry." She felt like she'd been caught in the commission of a crime. "I didn't realize anyone else was here." She explained. "I was just ...just..." she stammered foolishly. _Just what?_ She thought as the woman regarded her with curious amusement. _Crying over Neal Caffrey? Apologizing to an unconscious man? Trying to ease her guilty conscious?_ "...in the neighborhood," she finally finished lamely.

"Then please," the woman said as she closed the distance between them, "Don't let me interrupt your visit." Her eyes fell on Caffrey's still form, her brow furrowing in concern. "The doctor says he needs friends around him," she continued quietly, "that he needs a _reason_ to wake up." Agent Rice could hear the emotion in her voice. "But its been days," she shook her head sadly, placing a gentle hand on Caffrey's just as the agent had done moments before, "and there's been no change."

Burke had said the doctors could find no physical or neurological reason for Caffrey's continued comatose state, and that all they were doing now was waiting. She'd heard the exhaustion in his voice over the phone, and she could see it in this woman as well. Whoever she was, she obviously cared deeply about Neal Caffrey.

"I'm sorry," the woman apologized again. "I'm just worried, that's all." She shifted her attention from Caffrey to his visitor. "I'm June Ellington," she introduced. "a friend of Neal's and if I'm not mistaken," she added, "You are Agent Rice." The woman smiled at her surprise. "Agent Burke told me what happened," she said, nodding at the crutch, "so it didn't take a lot to deduce who you were."

"Then you know I'm not exactly a friend," she confessed, looking down at Caffrey herself. "In fact, I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me at all. But I still wanted to stop by."

"Since you were in the neighborhood?"

She met the woman's eyes. "Since he saved my life."

She could tell this wasn't news to June; Burke must have shared that as well.

"Well since you're here," the woman began, gesturing towards one of the room's chair. "Sit down and keep me company for a bit." She took a seat in the other. "Normally, Neal is a great conversationalist, but..." She left the thought unfinished, the look of worry returning to her face.

June said she wanted company but it sounded like she wanted encouragement. Unfortunately, that wasn't Agent Rice's strong suit. Still, she was willing to try. There had been a lot of _Firsts_ for her this week. She hesitated a moment, then accepting the offer, lowered herself into the vacant seat

"It's just been a week," she ventured, leaning the crutch against the wall. "I know it seems like a long time, but people have been like this longer and have been fine. Of course-," she'd started to add that, statistically, the longer Caffrey remained in this state the less his odds of recovery but that would be counterproductive to encouragement. "The waiting is hard," she opted for instead.

"Yes, it is," June agreed. "And I keep telling myself he's going to wake up." She frowned at the still form on the bed. "But the longer he's like this, the more I worry that he won't."

And with good reason; statistically speaking.

"I understand," Rice said sympathetically. "He's lucky to have a friend like you willing to wait with him. So how do the two of you know each other?"

"He lives with me," June answered. She smiled slightly at Rice's expression. "He rents the upstairs apartment."

Agent Rice had picked Caffrey up outside his apartment; the house was beautiful. She'd wondered how Caffrey had managed that and now she knew. June Ellington.

"How did that come about?" She asked.

"I was donating some of my late husband's clothing at a Thrift Shop," June told her. "My Byron had exquisite tastes, and Neal recognized the designer. It was a Devore; Byron won it from Sy himself in a poker game, and it fit Neal perfectly." She looked fondly at Caffrey. "I liked him on the spot," she admitted. "There was just something about him." She looked back at Rice. "It turned out he was looking for a place to rent, and I happened to have a guest room available."

Agent Rice couldn't help but think that the " _something about him"_ was merely Caffrey turning on the charm. He'd probably spotted June, picked up on her loneliness and moved in to capitalize on the situation. After all, he was a confidence man, skilled at reading people and finding a way past their defenses. He'd not only gotten a classic Devore but a very nice apartment to boot.

But even if the woman hadn't realized Caffrey was a conman at the time, she'd have found out soon enough. Agent Burke would have made sure she was aware of to whom, and to what, she was opening her home. Apparently, that information hadn't caused her to rescind her offer and Caffrey had gained more than a suit and a place to stay; he'd gained a friend as well.

"It didn't worry you, having a convicted felon in your home?" She had to ask.

June may have known Caffrey wouldn't pose a threat to her life, but surely she knew he might pose a threat to her bank accounts. Or even some of what appeared to be very nice jewelry.

"Not at all," she said firmly. "Neal told me told me that day about his forgery conviction and about his reputation as a thief and scam artist. He didn't deny it or make excuses; he just told me. You might not believe it," she continued, "but he's always been honest with me, that day and every day since. So no," she said again, shaking her head. "I didn't worry one bit about him being in my home. In fact, I was glad he was there. He brought life and laughter back into that big old house. It isn't the same without him there."

Agent Rice could tell Caffrey had brought life and laughter to more than just June's house; he'd brought it back to her as well.

"He's going to be okay, June," she reassured as Caffrey continued to sleep, oblivious to the worry he was causing those who cared about him. "I don't know him well but I do know he's not a quitter. He's going to wake up."

The woman received the words with gratitude but doubt remained in her eyes.

"No, he isn't a quitter," she agreed, but then qualified her statement. " _Normally."_ Her eyes traveled once more to Caffrey. "But he's been through a lot the past couple years. Agent Burke told me he asked about _Kate_."

"Yeah, he did," Rice confirmed, vividly recalling the moment and how quickly things had deteriorated following it. "Agent Burke said he must have been mixing up his explosions. Did you know her?" she asked the woman. "Kate?"

"No," June shook her head, "but I know Neal was crazy about her. He'd have done anything for her." _Even break out of prison_ , Rice thought to herself. "I don't think he's ever really dealt with that loss," June continued. "Not that he had much of a chance." Her brown eyes flashed with anger. "They sent him back to prison the day she died; he didn't even get to go to her funeral."

It had been cruel to send Caffrey back to a prison when he'd just witnessed Kate's death; crueler still that he hadn't been allowed to attend her funeral. It seemed especially unfair in light of the fact that he'd done nothing wrong. According to Burke, Fowler had documentation indicating Caffrey's departure was FBI sanctioned; he'd conned both the conman _and_ his FBI handler. Caffrey hadn't knowingly been attempting to flee Federal Custody but he'd still spent five weeks in prison while the bureau sorted it out.

After watching the woman he loved die. No wonder Caffrey had been placed on suicide watch. "That had to have been hard."

"I can't even imagine what those weeks must have been like," June replied. Rice could; at least the first seventy-two hours. Suicide Watch in prison was about liability, not concern or compassion. "When he came back," the woman continued, "he wouldn't talk about what happened or about Kate. He said he was fine but I knew he wasn't." She regarded him sadly. "Neal can process ten things at lightning speed under pressure and stay calm but when it comes to his emotions," she shook her head, "he's all over the place. He's either dangerously reckless or he shuts down, plasters a smile on his face and pretends he doesn't have a care in the world."

Rice understood pretending you didn't care; she did the same thing. It was part pride and part self-preservation and she guessed Caffrey viewed it the same way. In her experience, it was better for people to think you didn't give a damn; it _hurt_ less. And Caffrey was a pro at it. Until a few days ago she'd had him pegged as a shallow minded, self-serving criminal who cared about no one or nothing other than himself.

And as for shutting _down,_ he'd taken it to a whole new level. He was on day number eight.

"I think that's his greatest con," June continued thoughtfully, eyes still fixed upon Caffrey's sleeping face. Rice followed her gaze. Caffrey looked peaceful; peaceful and incredibly young.

"What is?"

"Convincing everyone he's fine," June replied wearily, "that he has it all together when he doesn't. I'm not sure if he's trying to convince the world or just himself."

Agent Rice could only speak from her own experience. "A bit of both, I'd imagine."


	12. Chapter 12

_Thanks for the reviews and positive vibes...things went well and our season is off to a great start._

 **Chapter Twelve**

Neal knew the plane was going to explode, he was certain of it, and Kate was already on board. He could see her through the window, smiling at him, waiting for him to join her.

"Kate," he called out. "Kate, get off the _plane!_ "

Her face remained in the window, smiling, beckoning to him as precious seconds ticked by. He realized she couldn't hear him, couldn't see the panic on his face from this distance. He sprinted across the tarmac towards the plane, hardly feeling his feet hitting the pavement. He had to get to her, get her away from the plane before it was too late. He bounded up the stairs and through the narrow opening.

"You have to get off this plane," he told her as he moved down the aisle, "or you're going to die; we _both_ are."

"No, we're not," she replied dismissively."We're going to _live,_ Neal," she smiled up at him. "In Paris, just like we always planned."

"But you don't understand," he insisted, rivets of sweat beginning to run down his face. "The plane's going to explode, Kate, we have to get off. _Now_."

Her smile remained fixed on her face in spite of his warning. She patted the empty seat beside her. "Sit down, Neal." She seemed oblivious to the stifling heat around them but he could feel his shirt beginning to stick to his back. "You said you wanted to be with me," she continued, "and now you can be."

"No, Kate," he said, desperate to make her understand. "We can't-"

"Please, Neal," she implored, the smile evaporating from her lips. Her eyes were now pleading as she reached out and captured his hand in hers. "Stay _with_ me."

She was so beautiful, so vibrant, so _Kate_. He loved her. Loved the way her hair blew across her face on a windy day, the way her eyes danced when she teased him, the way she pouted when she didn't get her way. He loved the way she fit perfectly into his arms like a puzzle piece, completing him.

He knew they had to get off the plane but her dark eyes mesmerized him, making him forget everything except how much he wanted to hold her, feel her breath against his chest and never let her go. He sank down, the once suffocating heat now feeling like a warm embrace. He reached over and pulled her into his arms.

"Kate," he murmured into the soft pillow of her hair. She smelt like apples. "Please never leave me again."

"I won't," she promised softly, wrapping her arms around him. "We'll be together forever, Neal."

It felt so good to be held, to feel connected, to belong somewhere. Kate in his arms filled an aching hole in his heart. If staying together meant dying together, he didn't mind.

He closed his eyes and let himself be lost in the warmth of her embrace.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Did you see that?" Agent Rice asked sharply, cutting June off mid-sentence.

She'd been sitting with Caffrey's landlady for the past forty-five minutes, listening to stories about her colorful past and watching Caffrey sleep. It was no wonder the woman had been drawn to Neal Caffrey and had been able to size him up so quickly. She was an expert on Confidence Men; she'd been married to one.

After a reminder that the statute of limitations for fraud in New York was six years, June had told her about a con she and Byron had run on the owner of an illegal gambling establishment in Red Hook a decade earlier. She'd just finished announcing that they'd taken the man for just shy of a half million dollars when Agent Rice saw Caffrey's eyelids flutter slightly. It was the first sign of life other than the steady rise and fall of his chest she'd seen since his brief moments of consciousness over a week earlier.

"What?" June asked, eyes quickly going to Caffrey's face. Before Rice could answer, it happened again. Encouraged, both she and June were instantly on their feet.

"Neal," June said hopefully, taking Caffrey's hand in hers. "Neal, _open your eyes_."

They watched expectantly, but nothing happened; June tried again to coax Caffrey into waking but to no avail. Whatever had happened, it appeared to be over.

"Go get someone," the woman directed, keeping her eyes fixed on Caffrey's closed ones. "They said to let them know if there were any changes."

Agent Rice nodded and a moment later, returned with the nurse she'd corralled in the hallway. Caffrey was still unconscious and June was still at his side.

"His eyes moved," June explained relinquishing her grip on Caffrey's hand and stepping out of the nurse's way. "It was like he was about to wake up."

"Did he open them?" the nurse asked, examining first one pupil, then the other. "Or say anything?"

"No," June replied reluctantly, "but they moved, twice." The nurse picked up Caffrey's limp hand, keeping her eyes on her watch with pursed lips. "There," June added in excitement. "He did it again!"

She was right. Caffrey's eyes were again moving beneath his closed lids. The nurse regarded him a moment, then studied the monitor above Caffrey's head. "Heart rate's up. Respiration too." She looked back down at her patient. His eyes continued to flutter. "Looks like he's experiencing REM sleep."

"REM?" June repeated. "You mean he's _dreaming_?"

"He may be," the nurse replied. "and if so, it's a good thing; it's a sign he's settling into a normal sleep pattern."

"What exactly does that mean?"

"It means he's a little closer to waking up, ladies," she explained. "I'll let the doctor know."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter arrived at the hospital just before six thirty. Usually, he was there an hour earlier, but a call at the office had held him up.

He'd had sat with Neal every afternoon for nine days. It wasn't just physically exhausting; sitting day after day with his still and silent CI was wearing him down mentally as well. It was affecting his life as well as his work; he couldn't sleep and was having trouble concentrating, keeping on task. Everyone said he needed to take a break, needed a day off from his vigil but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Neal had told him once he was the only person who could change his mind and Peter was counting on that still being true. Every afternoon he sat with Neal, worked on paperwork, talked about the cases he'd looked over that day, and told his CI he needed to wake up and get back to work.

 _Everyday._ So far, it had done no good whatsoever; there had been no change in Neal's condition.

Peter had been pleased the doctors at Bellevue had been willing to remove Neal's restraints. However, the stipulation was that Neal had to be supervised at all times. To that end, he, Elizabeth, June and even Mozzie had been taking turns at Neal's side. When none of them could be there, the hospital supplied the necessary supervision. Knowing June had an appointment and having arrived even later than usual, he'd fully expected to find a volunteer sitting with Neal.

Instead, he'd found Agent Rice.

"Agent Rice," he greeted as he entered the room. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"I had an appointment with my orthopedist," She explained, grabbing the cane that had been resting against the wall and getting to her feet. "His office is in the medical complex across from here." The agent clicked off the CD player on Neal's side table that, until now, had been playing something classical. She looked like she was going to say something else but she didn't.

She was worried about Neal but didn't like to admit it and he knew his arrival had made her uncomfortable.

"So what did the doctor say?" he asked.

"He hasn't been in yet," Rice replied. "But the nurse said it would probably be about seven before he got here."

"Not _his_ doctor," Peter clarified, nodding at Neal as he crossed the room. He placed his briefcase on the overbed tray. He'd been using it as a makeshift desk since all of Neal's nourishment was currently being supplied intravenously. " _Your_ doctor; the orthopedic."

"Oh," Rice said, shrugging her shoulder nonchalantly. "He said everything looks good. I start physical therapy next week."

"Glad to hear it," Peter told her before turning his attention to the silent member of their group. "I take it there's been no change?"

"Well, actually, there has been," Rice replied, joining him at Neal's side. "The nurse thinks he might be falling into a normal sleep pattern," she explained. "He's been having periods of what looks like REM sleep."

"Really?" Even as he watched, Neal's eyes moved beneath his lids, his brow furrowing slightly before smoothing once more in placidity.

"He's been doing that on and off all afternoon," she told him. "At first we thought he was waking up, but...well...so far he hasn't."

Still, Peter thought, it was something new, a _change_. Maybe they were getting through to him, maybe somewhere behind those closed eyes, Neal was trying to get back to them. But he needed to hurry; just this morning Agent Hughes had been informed by the DOC that if there were no changes in Neal's condition by week's end the paperwork for his transfer would be signed. If Neal woke up after that it would in prison but Peter feared that there, cut off from people who cared about him, Neal wouldn't wake up at all.

"He looks like he's dreaming," Peter commented.

"I know," Agent Rice agreed quietly. "The nurse said he might be and that if he was, it was a good thing."

Peter watched as Neal's brow clenched slightly, held a moment, then relaxed. He wondered what was going on in Neal's mind. Was he reliving the accident? The explosion? And if so, which one?

As much as he wanted Neal to wake up he was still apprehensive about what would happen when he did.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

"I don't care what the doctor said," Rice remarked, watching as the grimace lingered on Caffrey's face. He'd gone from the occasional quick furrowing of the brow to an all-out wince. "That looks more like pain than anguish to me."

They had asked Dr. Adams about Caffrey's pain level earlier, and he'd explained that although he might be experiencing some discomfort, he was unlikely in any real pain. At least not physically. The consensus among those who were supposed to know was that Caffrey was subconsciously processing an emotional trauma. As difficult as it was to watch, Dr. Adams assured them, what they were seeing now _was_ progress.

The nurse had said almost the same thing earlier, but Caffrey's discomfort had grown in intensity over the past couple of hours.

"I know," Burke conceded uneasily. "But they don't want to give him anything because he needs to-"

Burke was interrupted by the buzzing of his cell. He removed it from his coat pocket and frowned at the screen. "I gotta take this," he said. "Shouldn't take long. Do you mind...?" He nodded at Caffrey.

"Sure," she replied. "Take your time."

He thanked her and then stepped into the hall to answer the call.

Agent Rice knew they didn't want to give Caffrey anything to ease his discomfort because any opioid would just send him into a deeper sleep. Right now, what they wanted most out of Caffrey was for him to wake up. Medical personnel had their reason's but Agent Burke and the others had their own. She'd been shocked to learn that the DOC was pushing to have Caffrey moved to the prison infirmary. The man had done nothing wrong, in fact, he'd acted heroically. And how did they want to reward him? By sending him back to prison.

She'd asked Burke what could be done to stop the move but he said they'd done all they could do. He and the rest of the White Collar team had made their feelings on the subject clear, as had Agent Hughes, but their petitions had fallen on deaf ears. Friday, if there were no changes, Caffrey would be transported back to Sing Sing.

Thinking about making a call to the DOC herself, she settled down in the chair beside Caffrey's bed. She didn't mind waiting while Burke handled whatever matter had come up. She'd gotten over the awkwardness of sitting by Caffrey's bedside in silence while she'd waited on Burke to arrive in the first place.

June had an appointment and, when it became clear Agent Burke was running behind, she'd reluctantly announced she had to leave.

"Just let them know when you're ready to go," the woman had told her, gathering her jacket from the back of the chair. "And they'll send someone in to sit with him. They don't want him left alone," she added with a frown. "They aren't sure how he'll be when he wakes up."

Having been present the first time Caffrey had awakened, Rice understood their concerns. Since she had no one waiting for her and nowhere to be, she offered to stay until Agent Burke arrived.

"That's nice of you," June said, slipping on the jacket. "Anyway, I know I interrupted you earlier so now maybe you can finish what you started."

Agent Rice's face flushed at the memory. The woman had caught her crying at Caffrey's bedside. Humiliating. The only thing worse would be for Caffrey to ever find out about it.

"I needed to thank him for saving my life," she dismissed with a shrug. "Figured it would be a lot easier with him _unconscious_."

"For both of you no doubt," June chuckled in amusement, slinging a rather large bag over her shoulder. "The two of you are a lot alike, you know."

A few days ago, being told she was like Neal Caffrey would have offended her. But now, not so much. "In what way?"

The woman reached over and squeezed her hand. Her eyes were kind, understanding.

"Neither one of you is as tough as you like for people to think you are."

June Ellington wasn't just good at reading con men; she was pretty good at reading Federal Agents as well.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

His feet were pounding on the pavement, Kate in his arms, her face pressed into his shoulder as he ran towards the hangar. She was hurt, he wasn't sure how badly, but he'd gotten her out in time.

Although he was running flat out, for some reason he wasn't getting any closer to the hanger. Suddenly, his vision blurred and the scene around him transformed. The brightness of the day dimmed with afternoon shadows, and instead of crossing a tarmac he was crossing a highway. There was no hangar, no Peter representing safety in front of him. There were strangers, a man and a woman, standing on a grassy hillside with trees behind them.

He stopped in sudden confusion. Where was he? He looked down at the woman in his arms. The aroma of apples rose from red hair, not brown, and when the face pulled away from his chest, the blue eyes that met his weren't Kate's.

They were Agent Rice's; the woman who'd used him as bait and nearly gotten him killed. He didn't understand; what was happening? Why was _she_ here?

"It's okay, Caffrey." Her voice was uncharacteristically kind. This couldn't be right. But then he remembered. He hadn't saved Kate; she was gone, _dead because of him._ His throat tightened, and grief sucked the air from his lungs.

"It's a bad dream, Neal," Rice told him, her tone now sharp. "If you want it to end, you have to _wake up._ "

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It was either a soft gasp or a sob; Agent Rice wasn't sure. Agent Burke had said he wouldn't be long but it had already been close to a quarter of an hour since he'd stepped out to take a call. It wasn't that she had anywhere she needed to be, it was just that Caffrey seemed to be growing more uncomfortable with each passing moment. The expressions of pain, whether emotional or physical, had been coming with increasing frequency but this was the first time he'd made a sound. She knew it was probably a good thing, a sign that he was coming closer to consciousness, but it was still hard to watch.

What's more, she felt guilty, like she was taking unfair advantage of him by seeing him in such an unguarded and vulnerable state. She glanced toward the open door, hoping Burke would hurry back as the sound repeated. It was definitely a sob, and to her dismay, tears squeezed from beneath Caffrey's closed lids.

With Burke was still unavailable, she was moved to action by Caffrey's plight. She placed a hand on his arm.

"It's okay, Caffrey," she said, hoping a touch, coupled with words of reassurance, would ease his distress. But it didn't; instead, his eyes clenched tightly, his head shifted slightly on the pillow, and another sob escaped his lips. Rice leaned closer to his now distraught face. "It's a bad dream, Neal," she informed him firmly. "If you want it to end, you have to _wake up._ "

She'd told him to wake up but she was startled when, just seconds later, he did just that. His body jerked beneath her hand and with an audible gasp, his blue eyes flew open. His chest began to rise and fall quickly and a glance at the monitor told her his heart rate was increasing as well. His tears erupted in earnest, overflowing from his eyes and trickling down the sides of his face. Though she was glad to see him conscious, given his state of distress, she was concerned about a repeat of what had happened the last time he'd opened his eyes.

"Everything's okay," Rice assured him, pressing the call button on the bed rail in a mix of apprehension and relief. "Just try to relax."

Disoriented eyes found hers. Caffrey had been unconscious for days and had just awakened from what must have seemed like a very real dream; confusion was to be expected.

"Agent _Rice_?" he asked uncertainly, his voice hoarse with disuse.

"You're gonna be fine, Caffrey," she told him, adopting her usual no-nonsense tone. "Just took a knock on that hard head of yours."

If she'd subconsciously hoped her reverting to form would make Caffrey follow suit, she was disappointed.

"I don't understand." His look of bafflement transitioned into one of alarm. "What _happened_? Why-" the sob that interrupted his words brought a blush to his cheeks, "Why are _you_ here?"

If Caffrey didn't remember the accident or that a case had brought them together, she could understand his perplexity at waking to find her, of all people, at his side. Caffrey didn't like her, not only that, he didn't trust her, and until very recently the feeling had been mutual. That wasn't true anymore, but he didn't know that. To him, she was still the agent who'd called him a tool in her belt. She'd not only used him; she'd shown him no respect as a person or even as a CI.

She knew Caffrey was trying to make sense of things, to pull himself together. She understood completely; crying was bad enough without doing it in front of someone who you felt had no respect for you to begin with. Again, it wasn't true, but Caffrey didn't know it.

"There was an accident," she explained, hoping to stir his memory. "We were on the way to Albany to work a case and-."

 _"We?"_ Caffrey interrupted sharply, whatever composure he'd gained vanishing in an instant. "Was... _where..._ " he stammered. "Oh my god," he breathed, a stricken look on his pale face. " _Peter_." His voice rose in panic. "Where is he? _Where is Peter?_ _"_

"Neal," Burke's voice rang out from the doorway. His timing couldn't have been better. "Calm down."

"Peter," Caffrey's voice was still shaking, but his expression was one of relief. "You're _here_."

"Of course I am," Burke replied gruffly, making his way across the room. "Where else would I be?" The man had been practically camped by Caffrey's bedside since the accident and she knew how worried he'd been. But if she hadn't seen it herself she'd never guess it by his tone of voice now. "Glad you finally decided to join us." If he noticed Caffrey's anxiousness or the undried tears on his face he paid it no mind. "How are you feeling?"

Surprisingly, Burke's approached seemed to ground Caffrey. The younger man relaxed, his head once more resting on the pillow. He'd been unconscious for days, but somehow he still looked exhausted.

"I don't know," he replied, his voice more steady. "Confused, I guess." His eyes flitted to hers briefly before continuing. "She said we were in an accident but..." He dropped his voice. "I don't understand, Peter. Why were we with _her_?"

His tone made it clear that being anywhere with her was the last thing he would have wanted. She'd felt the same way but like him hadn't had a choice in the matter.

" _We_ weren't," Burke clarified. " _You_ were. You were asked to consult on one of her cases." Caffrey's face remained a blank. "In Albany." No bells were ringing. "You were riding up with her, and there was an accident." Burke frowned at his lack of recall. "You don't remember _any_ of that?"

At a loss, Caffrey shook his head. "No," he answered, a slight tremor returning to his voice. "I _don't._ I don't remember anything about it."

Seeing panic starting in Caffrey's eyes, Burke placed a hand on his shoulder. "It doesn't matter," he said firmly. "I'll fill you in on all of that later. What matters is that you're awake and you're gonna be okay."

Burke's words and steady touch eased Caffrey's distress. Again, he sank back against his pillow.

"So how long have I been here?" He asked, glancing around the room. "And where _is_ here?"

"Bellevue," Burke answered. "The accident was just over a week ago," he continued. "You were at a hospital in the upstate for the first four days, and then Agent Hughes arranged for you to be moved here."

Caffrey's expression was one of disbelief. "I've been out _for a week_?"

"Yeah," Burke replied. "You had a serious head injury, so we've just been waiting for you to wake up. I have to admit," he added, both his voice and expression softening as he finally allowed his relief to find it's way to his face. "You were really starting to worry me."

This was more like what Agent Rice had expected to see from Burke when Caffrey woke up. She'd been surprised by his apparent lack of compassion but now she understood. It wasn't that he'd been oblivious to Caffrey's distress, it was just he knew the best way to lessen it. Caffrey was confused, uncertain and probably scared and Burke, in his own special Federal Agent way, had given comfort by providing a figure of stability. But now that Caffrey needed something different, Burke was willing to give it as well. She'd heard people say that no one could handle Caffrey better than Agent Burke and it was true. She'd seen it for herself.

Caffrey's pale cheeks blushed again, but this time it was different. Burke's statement of concern may have brought color to his cheeks, but it had also pleased him. She could see it in his eyes. He gave a small shrug.

"Wouldn't be the first time," he said sheepishly, a faint smile on his lips.

Burke's tough demeanor vanished completely as a grin of genuine happiness spread across his face. He reached down and ruffled Caffrey's dark hair. "No," he agreed good-naturedly. "It wouldn't be."

June had told her Neal Caffrey wasn't as tough as he pretended to be and she realized that Peter Burke wasn't either.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Although Peter told him he'd fill in the blanks, there wasn't an opportunity for him to do so before the doctor arrived.

"Welcome back, Mr. Caffrey," the man began. Peter and Agent Rice stepped aside to make way for him. "I'm Dr. Adams. I've been your attending since you were transferred in from Saint George five days ago." He produced a penlight and leaned in. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay, I guess," Neal echoed his earlier answer to the same question but winced slightly as the small beam of light hit his pupil.

"Sensitivity to light is not uncommon," the doctor explained, peering into the other eye. "And your pupils are equal and reactionary. How about the head?" He pocketed the instrument. "Any pain?" he asked. "Pressure? Headache?"

"Not really." Dr. Adam's seemed nice enough but Neal didn't like doctors, he never had. They were so...well, _intrusive._ Not only did Dr. Adam's expression demand elaboration, Peter's skeptically raised eyebrow did so as well. "It's just kind of a dull ache," he explained, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. "Like I've slept too long. I'm sort of stiff, too," he added, "probably for the same reason. When will I be able to get out of here?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," the doctor replied. "We need to make sure things are as they should be, Mr. Caffrey. You've been through quite an ordeal. Do you remember what happened?"

"No," Neal answered, glancing at Peter uneasily. "They said I was in an accident, but I don't remember it."

"Some degree of retrograde amnesia is also not uncommon," the doctor supplied. Neal had never felt more _common_ in his life. "What is the last thing you do remember?"

Neal frowned, trying to rewind his mind past what he now realized were dreams to his last, coherent memory.

"I went to get coffee," he recalled a bit hesitantly. "Two blacks, one with cream and one with a shot of espresso." That was the standard White Collar coffee order, and he made the run several times a week. "I was going over an insurance case," he continued, eyes again finding Peter's. "It was about a coin collection. The owner claimed it had been stolen, but I was pretty sure he'd sold it and was trying to collect the insurance."

"The Alexander case," Peter confirmed with a nod. "And you were right. He moved it through a coin shop in Jackson Heights. That was Monday morning," he added, "just before Agent Hughes told you he was sending you to Albany. The accident was the next day. Look, Neal," he said almost apologetically, "I need to go out and call El. She's been worried sick about you. So have June and Mozzie. I need to let them know you're awake. I'll be back in a little while."

"I've got to go too," Agent Rice chimed in, reaching over to get what looked like a cane. She must have been injured in the accident too, but he still didn't know why she was here. "It's getting late. Glad you're gonna be okay, Caffrey."

They left, Peter's good manners causing him to lag behind as Agent Rice made her way to the door. It looked like her left leg had been hurt. There was a cast or maybe a brace that extended up past her knee. The memory of his dream, when he'd looked down and saw her in his arms, flooded back to him. Was it a dream or was it a memory?

"I know you have a lot of questions," the doctor said, pulling his thoughts from Agent Rice, "but right now I want to focus on your injuries, what you've been treated for and where you're at in the recovery process, okay?"

Neal nodded, and the doctor pulled a chair over, took a seat and began.

Although he didn't know what had happened before the accident or who thought putting him with Agent Rice was a good idea, Neal got a pretty good idea of what the accident had been and what had happened afterward. It all came out as the doctor went over his medical chart and detailed his injuries; cuts and abrasions, first degree burns and a grade three concussion.

He'd sustained _blast injuries._

The fact that there had been an explosion explained the vivid dreams about Kate. It made sense, he guessed, that seeing the cars explode would remind him of the plane. He hadn't actually seen the plane go up, but he'd felt it. The blast wave had taken the air from his lungs, propelling him forward several feet and onto the pavement. It was hard for him to separate the physical pain from the emotional pain of that day. It was all rolled up into one, horrible ball of agony.

The doctor's discourse also clarified some troubling things about Agent Rice. Her leg had been broken in the accident and it had been him who had gotten her out of the car. That must have been why, in his dream, the tarmac had changed to a roadway, and it had been Agent Rice in his arms instead of Kate. It also provided a reasonable explanation for her being there when he woke up. But he didn't want to think much about that. He'd been upset, in tears, and she'd seen it. He felt his face flush at the thought.

After he'd gotten her to safety, the doctor said he'd gone back to get the driver of the other car. It was then the cars had exploded and he'd sustained his injuries. That man, like Agent Rice, had been treated and released at St. George Medical Center in upstate New York. It was strange to listen to the doctor talk about things he'd done when he had no memory of doing them at all. It was like he was hearing about someone else, someone good and altruistic. Two things he'd never considered himself to be at all.

"I know it's a lot to process right now," the doctor told him, their mostly one-sided conversation coming to an end. "We'll wait to do the neurological eval in the morning but Dr. Cope, a psychologist here at the hospital, will probably drop in to see you a little later. Right now," he finished, "let's see about making you a little more comfortable." He pressed the call button and summoned the nurse who answered. "We'll remove the cath, get rid of some of these," he waved at the general chaos of tubes and wires, "and find you something to eat. Nothing fancy to start with," he warned as if Neal was expecting a four-course meal, "just something to see how your stomach is going to handle it."

"Is there a chance of a shower?" Neal asked, running his hand through his hair. His face felt reasonably smooth so he'd had some basic hygienic upkeep but his hair? It was in need of serious attention. Not to mention a hot shower sounded really good to his stiff muscles.

"Let's see how things go," the doctor hedged as the nurse entered the room. "Food first and if you tolerate it well and are steady on your feet, a shower. If not tonight, tomorrow for sure," he promised with a smile. "Deal?"

Neal hoped he'd be showering in his own shower by tomorrow but he nodded.

The doctor spoke briefly to the nurse and was almost to the door when Neal stopped him.

"Why is the hospital psychologist coming to see me?"

The doctor said sluggish mental processing was normal but until now, he hadn't thought that applied to him. He didn't feel sluggish but he must be because it was just now sinking in what the doctor had said. He didn't like medical doctors, but he liked shrinks even less. In his experience, nothing good ever came from sitting across from one of them.

"Like I said," the doctor began, "you've been through quite an ordeal. Both the accident and the explosion that followed were traumatic events, Mr. Caffrey. You may not remember them, but they can still have an emotional impact. Not only that," he continued, "but there are psychological components to head injuries as well. Mood swings, agitation, frustration, restlessness," he listed them off one by one. "Even bouts of depression can follow a concussion."

"But I'm none of those things," Neal protested. "I don't see the point in talking to someone about things I _don't_ feel."

He heard the anxiety in his voice and could see in their faces he was nullifying his own argument. Usually, he could control that kind of thing, could give the impression he wanted to give but right now, he seemed unable to do so.

"Sometimes these things develop later," the doctor said sympathetically and Neal appreciated that he hadn't pointed out the current state of agitation and frustration of his patient. "Dr. Cope will go over all that and let you know what to do if you start experiencing any of those symptoms. It's just a precaution, Mr. Caffrey. Nothing to get upset about."

Further protest was pointless and Neal knew it. Maybe, if he had food in his stomach and a shower, he'd be able to deal with a visit from Dr. Cope.


	15. Chapter 15

_Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter! I was out of town welcoming a new baby into the family!_

 ** **Chapter Fifteen****

Peter had finished his calls, one to Elizabeth who could notify Mozzie and June and one to Agent Hughes who could alert the Marshal's and the DOC, and was on his way back down the hall towards Neal's room when he met Dr. Adams.

"Agent Burke, this is Dr. Cope, the psychologist I am consulting with on Mr. Caffrey's case." Peter had heard the name but hadn't seen the face and for some reason had expected a _he_ instead of a _she_. "Agent Burke is Mr. Caffrey's POA," the doctor informed his companion. "He's also listed as his next of kin."

"Neal doesn't have a family," Peter told her. "At least none we're aware of. I'm his FBI handler. He's in my custody."

"Dr. Adams explained Mr. Caffrey's situation," Dr. Cope replied. "I'd like to talk to you a minute if you have the time."

"Certainly," he replied, glancing questioningly at Dr. Adams. "But other than the memory thing, Neal seemed fine this time around." He frowned. "Did something happen?"

"No," Dr. Adams assured him, "but Dr. Cope will still need to assess him before we can clear the cautionary notes on file. I told him she'd be dropping by to talk to him."

Peter's first thought was that he was glad Neal was equipped with an anklet. "What did he say?"

"He certainly wasn't thrilled with the idea," the doctor admitted, "but I explained some people experience psychological difficulties after a head trauma." He looked at Dr. Cope. "I told him you'd be able to tell him more about that and to answer any questions he might have."

"I see Mr. Caffrey's reluctance to meet with me doesn't surprise you, Agent Burke," Dr. Cope noted with a faint smile. "Do you know him well?"

As well as anyone _could_ know Neal, Peter thought to himself.

"Well enough to know he's not big on sharing his feelings," he said instead. "What do you need from me?"

Dr. Adams preempted her response with a nod in the direction of the nurses' station. "Feel free to use the conference room," he offered. His next words were to Dr. Cope directly. "I'll check in with you later."

He left them to resume his duties, and a moment later, Peter found himself sitting on a small modular couch in a room with fading wallpaper. This space, he guessed, was where doctors broke the bad news to anxious family members.

"I've read through Mr. Caffrey's medical history," Dr. Cope began, "and about the incident at St. George's that sparked concern about his mental state." She studied him. "I understand you were with him when he woke up?"

"Yeah," Peter nodded grimly. "He was disoriented, mixed up." The grief in Neal's eyes had been raw and heartbreaking to see. "He was confusing this accident, the explosion, with one that happened last year."

"An explosion that injured him and killed someone he cared about." He could tell she'd been filled in on at least some of the particulars.

"Yes," he confirmed, "but he's better this time," he insisted. "He's still confused but its because he doesn't _remember_ the last week and a half. At least _Kate_ isn't on his mind."

Dr. Cope negated his optimism with a shake of the head. "Just because a person has no memory of an event doesn't mean the feelings associated with it just go away, Agent Burke," she informed him. "In fact, sometimes _not_ remembering only compounds the problem because a person has no context for why they're suddenly feeling whatever it is they are feeling. This is especially so if a past trauma has somehow been triggered which sounds like what's happened here."

"So where does that leave Neal?" Peter couldn't stand a repeat of the months after Kate's death and he knew Neal couldn't either.

"I'm going to in to talk to him after we finish here." It was information but not an answer. "Dr. Adams says he's rational and did not indicate depression or self-destructive behavior. Once I see him, and if I agree with that assessment, I'll sign off, and the around the clock observation order can be lifted. But I do believe it's important he is told about what happened at St. George's."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Dr. Cope may believe telling Neal was the right thing to do but Peter subscribed to the idea that if it wasn't broken, it didn't need fixing. If Neal's mind was no longer on Kate's death he'd rather it not be redirected there. To do so would only invite trouble and Neal was enough of that without inviting more.

"I understand your hesitancy but he needs to know," she insisted. "That way he'll understand if he starts having symptoms of PTSD like flashbacks, nightmares or new and intense feelings of anger or grief. Can you tell me more about the circumstances of her death?" she asked. "I know she was killed in an explosion and that Mr. Caffrey was there when it happened but why was he treated in a prison infirmary instead of a _hospital?_ Did the accident occur during a crime he was committing?"

"It wasn't an accident," Peter responded sharply. "And there was a crime being committed, but it wasn't by _Neal_." He knew his reaction was disproportional to the inquiry. "It's complicated," he added by way of explanation.

"Things usually are," she replied easily, not appearing the least put off by his sudden defensiveness. "So tell me about it."

Peter understood that if she wanted to bring up the subject with Neal, she needed to know but it wasn't something he liked to think about, much less discuss. He and Neal never talked about it except in reference or that one, brief time at the Burke table when Neal admitted he hadn't really wanted to leave. Everything about that day was horrible, and he hated the way Neal had been treated, how he'd been carted off to prison dazed and still bleeding.

 _Was Caffrey attempting to flee custody? Did he have reason to kill Kate Moreau?_

The presumption of innocence until proven guilty hadn't applied to Neal and he'd sat in prison for weeks while the bureau asked questions, and OPR covered their collective ass. Although it hadn't been his call and he'd tried to intervene on Neal's behalf, he still felt guilty, like he'd let Neal down when he needed him most. And that was before he learned about the three days Neal had spent on suicide watch. That just made everything worse.

He started with the basics of who Kate was, what she was to Neal, his quest to find her and an overview of the events that lead to that fateful day on the tarmac. He explained it hadn't been an accident, that there had been a bomb on the plane and if he hadn't arrived and delayed Neal, he too would have died that day. He intended to stay objective and factual, but with questions and calls for clarification from the doctor, he found himself reliving the incident himself and slipping into a more subjective narrative. He told her what had happened after the explosion, how he'd had to physically restrain a distraught Neal to keep him from charging into the flames.

"That had to have been hard," she remarked quietly. "For _both_ of you."

"It was," Peter admitted, feeling a knot in the pit of his stomach from the memory, "but it just got worse. The Marshals got there before the fire was even extinguished, cuffed Neal and took him back to prison. I couldn't stop them." The knot grew. "I didn't see him again for five weeks."

"So that's how he ended up in the prison infirmary."

Peter nodded grimly. "He was on suicide watch the first three days. That had to have been hell after what he'd been through. I didn't know about that until the other day." That still rankled. "No one _told_ me."

"Well given the circumstances, I can understand the prison doctors not wanting to take any chances. Did you catch the person responsible for Kate's death?"

"Not yet." That rankled, too.

"So there's been no real closure," she observed. "That's a lot for anyone to handle, especially on their own. You said Neal doesn't talk about his feelings," she continued, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "Do you mean with you specifically or not with anyone?"

Peter knew he was no good at being a sounding board. It wasn't that he didn't care or didn't have compassion, he just didn't know what to do with it. He did pretty well with Elizabeth but she was an isolated case. With everyone else, he tended to brush feelings off and handle them pretty much the way he handled his own; by ignoring them. He was especially bad at that with Neal. When Elizabeth was hurting or upset and he didn't know what to say, he just pulled her into his arms, held her and told her everything would be alright. That wasn't exactly an option with Neal. His most usual response to Neal was to tell him his feelings were irrelevant and that he needed to Cowboy Up and do his job.

But he hadn't done that after Kate died. He'd genuinely tried to get Neal to open up, to talk about what happened but he'd refused. He insisted he was fine but, as Mozzie had pointed out, there was no way he _could_ be. Even Neal Caffrey couldn't bounce back that quickly.

Peter's mind snapped back to the conversation he'd had with the little guy after Kate's death. He knew Neal was struggling and had gone to Mozzie for insight into what was going on Neal's head.

 _He's not exactly forthcoming,_ Mozzie had said.

Neal, too, tended to deal with feelings by brushing them off and ignoring them.

"Not with anyone," he replied. "Neal can talk about virtually any topic from Wall Street Investments to Tibetan Cave paintings, but he doesn't talk about his feelings. When it comes to that, he's pretty tightly bottled up."

"Well," the doctor said, "It's possible this may uncork the bottle, so to speak. He's got a lot to deal with, to sort out, and he's going to need help. Someone he trusts, someone who understands what he's going through." She met his eyes steadily. "If he doesn't want professional help, Agent Burke, he's going to need a friend."

Peter found the thoughts of an emotionally uncorked Neal Caffrey quite unsettling.

"Well, he has one," he told her. "He has _me_."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Although Peter hadn't returned, Neal had had no shortage of visitors since his departure. After the doctor left the nurse remained and, just as the doctor had promised, set about making him more comfortable by removing the tubes and wires that tethered him. First to go was the O2 sensor and the blood pressure cuff, followed by the wires on his chest and then the IV. She saved the catheter for last and removed it causing him no discomfort and, to her credit, minimum embarrassment. Once that was finished she removed her gloves, tossed them into the garbage receptacle and picked up a pink plastic pitcher from the table.

"I'll bet you're dry," she offered as she made her way to the door. "I'll get some ice and fill your water cup for you."

Before she was out of the door, a young lady arrived with a tray. "Now that you're awake," she began, sitting the tray on the mobile table. "We're going to see about waking up your digestive tract." She adjusted the table top a few inches upward then rolled it over to the bed. "Dr. Adams wants you to start with a soft diet," she explained, "so I've brought you an assortment-pudding, applesauce, and everyone's favorite, green jello." Her smile was warm. "Anything look good to you?"

He looked over his options but nothing seemed particularly enticing. "Once you eat," she encouraged, handing him a plastic spoon, "we'll see about getting you up and into the shower."

Properly motivated, Neal took the proffered spoon. "Thank you." He wasn't hungry but was willing to do anything that led him closer to a shower. The visit from the hospital psychologist was still hanging over him like the Sword of Damocles and he wasn't ready. Two-thirds of his confidence came from feeling like he _looked_ confident and, wearing a blue cross-hatched print hospital gown, he felt anything but. He had to have that shower. And a _comb_. "That would be great."

She just stood there, and he realized she was waiting for him to make a choice. He decided on the applesauce, picked it up, peeled back the foil top, and tentatively took a bite.

"Mmm." It really wasn't _Mmm-_ worthy but he hoped if he seemed committed to eating it she would go on about her business.

But she didn't. Instead, she just smiled and continued to watch him expectantly. Resigned to the fact that she was going to stay until he was done, he began to eat the applesauce, one small bite at a time. While he was working his way through the cup, the nurse returned with ice, picked up the large water bottle and stepped over to the sink. She emptied some of the ice into the cup, then filled it with tap water.

"It's important to stay hydrated," she told him as she sat the bottle on the table in front of him. He thanked her and, with a nod at her coworker, she left them.

A moment later, he sat the empty applesauce container down on the tray, hoping that would be enough to satisfy the food nazi and send her on her way.

"Can I try the others a little later, Beth?" he asked, using her name and giving her his best puppy dog expression. This strategy usually worked well with the ladies; the young and old alike. "I don't want to eat much until I see how my stomach is going to handle it." He paired a sheepish grin with a small shrug. "Its been awhile since I've had anything in there."

"Of _course_ ," she replied with understanding. "There's no hurry; just take your time." She started towards the door. "Now if you start to feel sick, just hit the call button and I'll be right in."

"I will," he said, rewarding her with a smile. "Thanks, Beth."

"You're very welcome," she beamed, her cheeks flushing slightly. "And if you need to go to the bathroom, do the same thing," she instructed. "Press the call button. Don't try it on your own, okay? Let someone help you."

There was no way he was calling someone to take him to the _bathroom._ Hopefully, Peter would be back before then.

"I'll call if I need you."

Pleased with his promise, Beth left and Neal breathed a sigh of relief. In addition to a shower, he needed a few minutes to focus, to calm down before the psychologist arrived. He didn't know why the thought of that meeting was freaking him out so. He wasn't being profiled or anything; it was just routine. He'd be asked how he felt, what he remembered. The doctor would explain what retrograde amnesia was and tell him he may or may not ever remember the accident.

That was kind of a bummer. He didn't really care about remembering the accident itself but it would be nice to remember what happened afterward. It sounded like he'd been pretty awesome but since he had no memory of it, it always felt like people were talking about someone else.

He didn't get five minutes of peace before he was once again joined by hospital staff. This time it was a young man carrying a black carrier with what appeared to be medical supplies. He entered, announcing that he'd come to check and redress his burns. Dr. Adams had mentioned the burns on his right hand and forearm, but until now, Neal hadn't given them much thought.

According to the name tag hanging from his pocket, the young man's name was Daniel, and he was a pleasant, talkative sort. He pulled up a chair and took a seat, placing his supplies on the floor beside him. He told Neal he'd been checking the burns each day and that they were healing nicely. There should be little or no scarring.

"Good to see you awake," he added as he began to unwrap Neal's hand. He'd said the burns were healing but Neal still watched with slight apprehension as the young man removed the gauze from his palm and then his wrist and forearm. The palm of his hand seemed to be the most damaged; the skin was red and tender and felt stiff and Neal could see that it had been blistered. His wrist and forearm didn't look bad at all but resembled a really bad sunburn. Once the bandage was removed, the man applied a thick ointment, taking special care with the palm which was by far the most tender. Finished with that, he removed a pair of scissors and a roll of tape from the carrier, placed the scissors on the table, tore off a piece of tape and stuck it to the table's edge. He then took a roll of gauze and rewrapped Neal's palm but this time, he left the wrist and forearm uncovered.

"Like I said," he announced, cutting the gauze deftly, " _healing nicely._ " He dropped the scissors back in his basket. "Another couple days and you'll be home free." He secured the wrap with the small piece of tape. "I heard you got these pulling a man out of a burning car," he ventured, casting Neal a curious look. "That you were a _hero_."

"Yeah," Neal replied, again experiencing the odd feeling that they were talking about someone other than him. "I heard that too."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Neal had lost count of how many times he'd said that, either to himself or to someone else over the years. But this had been different; it wasn't a risky escape across rooftops or a _looks-easier-than-its-gonna-be_ wall safe. It wasn't even slipping through a diplomat's daughter's window while her father entertained the state military officers downstairs.

It was a ten feet space between his bed and the bathroom door.

The applesauce made him thirsty and he was halfway through the large container of water when he realized a trip to the bathroom was in his immediate future. Peter still wasn't back and he didn't want to call Beth so he was contemplating making the trip on his own. If he could make it to the bathroom and back without incident, surely they'd not question his ability to take a quick shower.

He pushed the rollable table out of the way and turned down the blankets that covered him. With determination and a little maneuvering, he swung his bare legs over the edge of the bed and shifted into an upright position.

The room swam momentarily with the sudden elevation change but after over a week on his back, Neal expected as much. He'd been warned he'd be unsteady; all he needed was a little time to acclimate and he'd be fine. Choosing to ignore the weakness that made his arms feel like jello, he sat there a moment and waited for the room to stabilize.

It was getting late, nearly eight, and the hospital psychologist still hadn't come by. Maybe he'd decided to wait until morning to talk. That was more than fine with Neal. He could get a shower and perhaps have June swing by with some clothes. That would improve things exponentially. Even though he kept telling himself talking to the doctor wasn't a big deal it still felt like one. Maybe because having a missing week was kind of freaking him out or maybe because he still felt jittery from the dreams about Kate.

Or maybe because, before now, talking to a shrink always _had_ been a big deal.

"It's not that far," he said as he sat there, feet dangling off the edge of the bed eyeing the bathroom door like a Renoir ripe for the taking. "Ten feet," he reasoned, " _tops_. I can do this. No problem."

Fearing that delaying much longer would be unwise, Neal slipped off the bed. There was a wave of lightheadedness but it quickly passed. The floor was cold against his bare feet and, feeling a draft, he reached behind to hold the gown closed. Now committed to his decision, he started across the floor. He made it halfway to the bathroom before he realized he'd overestimated his stamina and underestimated the energy ten feet was going to require.

His weakness grew, turning his legs to rubber. It was too far to go forward and too far to go back.

" _Shit._ "

He began to sink to the floor and released his grip on his gown so he could use both hands to catch himself. On hands and knees in the middle of the room, he knew his miscalculation had gotten him into a jam.

 _I can just crawl the rest of the way,_ he thought by means of mitigation, _before any one's the wiser._

That contingency was quickly shattered as a voice sounded behind him.

"Need some help?"

Not only was he horrified at being caught in such a state, the cool breeze on his backside told him not a shred of his dignity had been spared. Sheer mortification pumped enough adrenaline into him that he was able to roll over, righting himself and planting his bare bottom on the floor in one move. He wasn't accustomed to quite so _literally_ showing his butt but surely hospital staff were accustomed to seeing such things. After all, they were the ones who insisted on open-backed gowns.

This was an embarrassing situation but it could be worse, he told himself as he met the eyes of the woman standing in the doorway. At least it wasn't Peter or God forbid, _Agent Rice,_ standing there. He quickly recouped with a smile he in no way felt.

"Nope, just resting a minute." He hoped humor would alleviate some of the awkwardness of the situation

He didn't think it worked. The woman started across the room and he expected her to buzz the nurses' station but instead, she bypassed the bed and approached him instead.

"Really?" She asked, looking down at him. She seemed more amused by his predicament than concerned with it and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. "Looks to me like you're kind of in a tough spot."

Glad she hadn't buzzed for help but curious as to why he realized she didn't _look_ like hospital staff. She wasn't wearing scrubs or a white coat and no hospital ID with her name on it dangled from her blouse. And she hadn't scolded him for leaving his bed without assistance.

"Well, I've been in worse," he told her, now wondering who she was and why she was here. "But usually I'm _dressed_ better."

"I'm sure you are," she laughed. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners told him her mirth, unlike his, was genuine. "Neal Caffrey, I presume?"

He knew his name was posted on the door but still, the wayshe said it made him uneasy.

"The one and only," he replied, eyeing her warily.

"Its good to meet you, Neal," she said. "I'm Dr. Cope." Cool blue eyes studied him. "Dr. Adams asked me to stop by and talk to you."

The realization of who she was suddenly hit him. Not just the _who_ but the _what._ He'd been concerned about meeting a psychologist before he had a shower but now he was meeting one sitting in the middle of the floor about to pee himself. And that was after being caught not with his pants down, but without any on at all. It took him a second to find his voice.

"Dr. _Cope,_ " he echoed in disbelief as the irony of her name sank in. "The hospital _psychologist._ "

"The one and only," she quipped. "So, do you want to talk from down there or do you want me to help you up?"

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"When I got my doctorate I was Doctor Kelley," she told him, stepping past him to the storage cabinet. "But when I married Jim Cope," she continued, opening the cabinet door and removing a hospital gown, "as you can imagine, the jokes started. Here," she said, returning and handing him the gown. "Use this."

He took it from her but his blue eyes met hers doubtfully. "Put in on," she instructed. "Backward," she added in clarification. "Like a robe. That way, I can help you up and you don't have to worry about, you know..."

" _Drafts_ ," he supplied.

"Exactly."

She had learned a good bit about Neal Caffrey from reading his file and more from speaking with Agent Burke, but nothing beat one on one interaction and so far, this one had been a doozy. Most of the time, her first meeting with a patient was mundane and followed a fairly predictable course. Even when people sought her out and _wanted_ to talk, there was usually still a level of apprehension involved. It was her job to ease the situation and help them feel safe; only then could any helpful discussion begin to take place. Sometimes the simple offer of a cup of water worked. With others, it took several minutes of small talk before they could relax.

But this first meeting had been anything but mundane or predictable. Just in five minutes, she'd seen the patient in a variety of situations and had witnessed his equally variable problem-solving and coping techniques. It had been extremely enlightening. Neal was independent and strong-willed and, as his current situation attested to, not one to readily ask for or accept help.

Especially not the kind of help she was there to offer. Both Dr. Adams and Agent Burke had told her he wasn't likely to be receptive and his reaction when she'd introduced herself confirmed their assessment. There had been a moment of stunned disbelief before he schooled his expression; his face grew placid and eyes distant. The animation she'd seen in him only seconds before as he tried to make light of his predicament vanished as he withdrew, emotionally closing himself off and effectively shutting her _out._

His change of demeanor had been subtle and likely would have gone unnoticed by any other than a trained psychologist. Seeing an opportunity to engage him, she offered to help him up and reluctantly he accepted. That was a start.

She waited as he slipped first one arm and then the other into the gown. "Ready?"

Had Neal's build not been so slight, she would never attempt getting him to his feet by herself. But if she could manage it and keep his dignity intact, it might build trust and create a sense of camaraderie between them.

"Yeah," he replied, changing position to get his legs under him. He glanced towards the bathroom door. "But I need to go there first, though."

She'd identified his motivation for leaving the bed the minute she'd entered the room, saw his focus and heard his self-talk.

"I understand," she told him, adjusting her stance to get a solid foundation before extending her hand. Dutifully, he took it.

"One, two, _three._ "

With their combined effort, a moment later Neal was on his feet. She immediately slipped an arm under his, wrapping it behind his back to balance and steady him. She felt resistance as he instinctively tensed against her touch.

"Lightheaded?" she inquired, peering up at him. She felt him relax slightly. "Feel like you might pass out?"

"I'm okay." His answer was short but she didn't know if it was from discomfort or determination; his face gave no indication. "Let's just go."

She complied and, for the most part, he was able to support his own weight, and they reached the bathroom without difficulty.

"I can take it from here," he informed her, leaning heavily on the bathroom sink for support. " _Really,"_ he insisted, his tone terse. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay," she said, relinquishing her grip. "But don't fall in there and get us _both_ into trouble."

Her lighthearted tone and inclusive phasing were meant to pull him out, to help her connect with him in some way.

And it worked; his expression softened, and a faint smile touched his lips. "I won't."

 _Mission accomplished_ , she thought to herself.

"Good," she said, returning his smile. "I'll just wait out here, then."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Neal wasn't sure how long he'd been in the small bathroom but it felt like a long time. The walls of the room were starting to close in on him and he was expecting Dr. Cope to tap on the door at any moment. After he'd taken care of the pressing needs of his bladder, he sank down on the toilet to rest and catch his breath. He also needed a minute to process the last few minutes and prepare himself for what, or who was waiting outside the door.

Dr. Cope. Unbelievable.

He knew her first impression of him had been memorable, to say the least, but it wasn't the one he'd hoped to make. The whole thing would be comical if it were happening to anyone but him. Peter would undoubtedly get a kick out of it if he heard about it. Which Neal was determined that he not. He could just hear the wisecracks now.

Wisecracks. He winced at his own accidental pun. Peter would be unbearable.

He'd managed to buy himself a moment's reprieve but he knew Dr. Cope wasn't going anywhere. He was going to have to go back out there and face her and putting it off was only going to make it harder. It wasn't wasn't a big deal, he told himself for the umpteenth time, she was only there to go over the things Dr. Adams had already told him about and to answer any questions he might have. And since he planned to have none, the whole thing would go quickly. Then she'd be on her way.

He sat there as long as he dared, gathering both physical and mental strength, then got to his feet. Still unsteady he leaned against the sink to keep his balance and took stock of his appearance in the mirror. He wasn't thrilled with the face that peered back at him. His complexion was shallow and his eyes, one of his best features, looked weak and dull. His usually voluminously hair was flat, limp and in total disarray and two mismatched hospital gowns hung loosely from his frame.

He washed his hands, ran wet fingers through his hair to calm the chaos as best he could and splashed cold water on his face. The sooner he got this over with the better.

"You can do this," he said to the face in the mirror. "No problem."

Of course, that hadn't worked out so well for him last time. But still. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Dr. Cope, who'd been sitting, immediately got to her feet, dropped the paper she'd been holding onto the chair and crossed the room to meet him.

"Can I help?"

His first instinct was to decline but, remembering what had happened the last time he'd tried to traverse the space alone, he accepted the offer instead. Not only was it logistically the wise thing to do, but it was also the polite thing.

"That would be great," he said, lifting his arm slightly to invite the support.

She moved in beside him and, as she had the last time, wrapped her arm around his back. This time, however, he reciprocated by placing his own arm across her shoulders. In that manner, they quickly crossed the room. Even with help, Neal's legs were nearly giving way by the time they reached the bed. Once there, it took him a minute to get himself situated in the bed but when he had, he pulled the blanket up to cover his legs and more importantly, the tracking monitor strapped to his ankle. He knew she'd seen it already, there was little she hadn't seen, but he felt more at ease with it out of sight.

Task completed, he sank into the pillow, exhausted. Now that she was standing in front of him, he could feel his face burning.

"Thanks," he breathed, hoping exertion would camouflage his embarrassment. "That sure didn't go the way I'd planned."

"I imagine not," she returned, picking the sheet of paper up from the chair she'd vacated. "Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"

"No, water is what got me into trouble in the first place. So," he continued, eager to get things underway. "What can I do for you, Dr. Cope?"

"I just came by to see how you were, feeling, Neal, how you're processing." She met his eyes. "Is it okay for me to call you Neal?"

"All things considered, I think it's a little late to worry about formalities," he pointed out.

"I agree," she said with a faint smile, pulling the chair closer. "You can call me Barbara if you like." She sat down, indicating to Neal that she intended to stay longer than he'd hoped. "I'm sure Dr. Adams explained that recovering from a head injury like yours can take weeks, even months. The physical symptoms, headaches, vision problems, dizziness, nausea, and fatigue typically pass in the first week, but the cognitive and emotions symptoms can persist for much longer. Did he discuss that with you?"

This was the conversation he'd expected and any other time, he'd already have determined what she wanted to hear and crafted his response. But this wasn't any other time. This time he simply answered on autopilot.

"Yes, he did," he told her. "He said I might have trouble concentrating and staying focused for a while." He frowned at the blanket covering his legs. How would that go over with Peter and the FBI? His release agreement depended on his ability to get results and if he couldn't concentrate or focus, how was he going to-

"Neal."

He looked up at the doctor in alarm. His mind had wandered; he'd missed something. "What?"

"Did Dr. Adams go over the emotional symptoms?" The way she enunciated told him she was repeating the question. That was what he'd missed.

"Yes," he replied. "He said I might be more emotional than usual and that I might .." He paused, trying to remember the symptoms Dr. Adams had listed. He'd talked to the man less than an hour before but the details of the conversation were already fading from his memory. "..feel irritable and moody."

Those were the only symptoms he could remember.

"It can be a lot more serious than that," Dr. Cope told him. "Especially in cases like your when the injury occurred during a violent or otherwise traumatic event."

"But I don't even remember it."

"Just because you don't remember what happened doesn't mean it didn't impact you emotionally." That rang a distant bell; Dr. Adams had made a similar proclamation. "Whatever feelings you experienced, whatever emotions the incident brought up, they are still there and they will come out," she warned. "When they do, they may be intense and confusing. You may feel anxious and overwhelmed."

Neal was already starting to feel overwhelmed just by the conversation. The dull ache in the back of his head was growing and he didn't know what to say, what she wanted him to say.

"Okay," he mumbled for lack of a better response.

"I'm sorry," she said sympathetically. "I know you're tired but it's important you understand the complexity of the emotions you are going to have to navigate."

Again, he felt like she was waiting for a specific response and again, he was at a loss. "I understand."

He clearly wasn't convincing. If he had been, she would have been satisfied and risen from the chair to signal an end to the discussion. Instead, she kept her place and studied him as if he were a puzzle to solve.

"Strong emotions can be confusing especially if we don't know why were are experiencing them. I know you don't remember the accident, Neal," she ventured almost hesitantly, "but do you remember waking up at St. George's?"

It wasn't a question he'd expected and it took him a moment to catch up with the sudden change of direction. St. George must be the hospital he'd been taken to after the accident but he had no memory of it.

He shook his head. "No, I didn't know I did."

The doctor nodded slowly. "You woke up the day after the accident but were only conscious briefly," she told him. "You were very agitated and had a psychogenic nonepileptic seizure." She held his gaze. "Its a type of seizure brought on by extreme emotional distress."

Extreme emotional distress? He felt his throat tighten."I don't understand."

"Your extended state of unconsciousness wasn't caused by the concussion, Neal," she explained. "It was a psychosomatic response to emotional trauma."

He might be processing slowly but the word psychosomatic registered immediately. He felt a wave of alarm.

"I don't understand," he repeated.

"I know this is hard," Dr. Cope said, leaning forward and putting her hand over his. The mix of apprehension and pity in her eyes did nothing to slow his suddenly pounding heart. "But I believe the accident, more specifically, the explosion that followed it, triggered the memory of an earlier explosion." Feeling himself start to tremble, Neal closed his hands to grip the blanket. "The one that killed Kate."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Agent Burke had warned against bringing Kate up, but she felt it was in Neal's best interest to be aware of what had been going on in his subconscious mind. It was there, and it was going to come out. If he knew and were prepared, he'd be better able to handle it when it did.

Still, when the shock registered on his pale face and his body went rigid, she had a moment of doubt.

"It's okay, Neal," she said, getting to her feet in concern. "You're safe here." He was looking at her, but she wasn't sure he was seeing her. "Neal," she said again with more urgency, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Breathe."

The physical touch reached him; breaking through whatever emotion had paralyzed his mind and body. He let out the breath he'd been holding and gulped in another, the almost dazed look of shock giving way to one of panic. His face flushed and his respiratory rate, which had initially stalled, now raced to the other extreme.

"Take it easy," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "Try to calm down. Breathe in through your nose, out through the mouth. That's right," she added at his effort to follow her instruction. "Slow and easy."

Satisfied he was out of danger having another seizure, she released her grip on his shoulder and sat down. She watched and waited quietly as he regulated his breathing and regained some composure. After several moments, he was the one who chose to break the silence.

"How do you know about Kate?" He kept his eyes averted and plucked aimlessly at a loose thread on the blanket.

She was pleased he was willing to engage. She hadn't been sure he would be after the emotional bombshell she'd dropped.

"Agent Burke told me," she replied. "He said you loved her very much."

Neal's head raised quickly, a look of betrayal in his eyes. "Why would he tell you that?"

"Because he's worried about you, Neal," she assured him. "He was with you when you woke up at St. George's. You asked him about Kate, asked if she was safe."

She saw a look of understanding dawn in his eyes. "Oh."

"When tests ruled out a neurological cause for the seizure the doctor suspected a psychological one."

"So Peter told them about Kate." She still sensed disapproval.

"He told them she'd died in an explosion and that you'd witnessed it."

Agent Burke had said Neal kept his feelings bottled up, but in his current state of mind, he was unable to do so.

"I dreamed I saved her," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "I was carrying her away from the plane, but when I looked down, it wasn't her. It was Agent Rice."

Dr. Cope wasn't sure it had been a dream; it sounded more like a memory his subconscious mind had tampered with. She could understand why. Neal had been able to save Agent Rice. He hadn't been able to save Kate.

"You're dealing with a lot of unresolved feelings, Neal," she offered. "Dreams are just one way the subconscious mind works through them."

"But it seemed so _real_ ," he insisted as tears overflowed and wet his cheeks. "I could even smell her shampoo."

She again placed her hand on his, hoping a physical touch would bring him some comfort.

"I'm sorry, Neal," she said, squeezing his hand. "I'm sorry about Kate."

Even as a psychologist, she sometimes found words inadequate.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Before Dr. Cope's visit Neal had been eager for Peter's return, but now he found himself hoping he'd gone home. He didn't want to see Peter; he didn't want to see anyone. He just wanted to pull the covers over his head and be left alone. Even the thoughts of a shower had lost its allure.

From beginning to end, the meeting with Dr. Cope had gone worse than expected. He'd been embarrassed when she found him on the floor with his backside exposed, but that paled in comparison to the humiliation he felt later when he been unable to stop himself from breaking down in front of her.

Of course as a psychologist she had no problem with tears, in fact, she even encouraged them. Crying was a good thing, she'd insisted as he sniffed and hiccuped, a vital part of maintaining good mental health. Not only did it release stress and anxiety, it also stimulated the production of endorphins: the body's own natural painkiller. That was the reason people felt so much better after a good cry.

Never in his life had he had a _good_ _cry_. The term itself was an oxymoron.

As much as he hadn't cared about neurotoxins, stress hormones, or endorphins, it was better she'd talked to him and not just _watched_ him. Plus the calm, steady sound of her voice had offered a sort of comfort. She also didn't ask what was wrong, what she could do, or mouth any of the age-old platitudes most people felt compelled to spout out at the sight of tears.

"That's a good start," she told him when he'd finally come to a stopping point. "Crying is essential in resolving grief, Neal. The greater the grief, the more tears you'll have to shed."

He'd been crying when he woke up earlier and Agent Rice had been there. Had he been crying the other time he'd awakened, when Peter had been there? According to Dr. Cope, he'd been upset, asked about Kate and then had a seizure. Having Agent Rice witness his tears was bad but at least he didn't have to see her often; plus, he didn't care what she thought about him. That wasn't the case with Peter. He saw him every day and, as much as he denied it when Mozzie called him on it, what Peter thought of him _did_ matter. If Peter had seen him like that, then he'd never win the man's respect; not with that image in his mind.

This time the wave of humiliation that swept over him was accompanied by an inescapable feeling of helplessness.

"I hate this," he declared hoarsely. "I hate _crying_ ; it makes me feel weak."

"No, it just makes you _feel,_ " she corrected gently, "and you can't move past pain without feeling it first. I'm sorry but that is just the way it works." She got to her feet, finally signaling an end to the grueling encounter. "If you ever want to talk to me, I'm just a call away. Remember, tears heal the heart, Neal," she offered as a parting shot, "so don't hold them back."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter had been positioned in a chair across from the nurses' station for almost a half hour. He was several yards down the hall from Neal's room, but he had a clear view of the closed door. Time had been creeping by, but finally, the door opened. He got to his feet and moved up the hallway to meet Dr. Cope.

"Well," he initiated once they were face to face. "How is he?"

"I agree with Dr. Adam's assessment, Agent Burke," she replied. "I see no indication of self-destructive or suicidal tendencies. I have no problem signing the psychiatric release."

That was good to hear, but Peter hadn't been worried about Neal passing the assessment.

"That good," he said, glancing towards Neal's now open door. "But how _is_ he?" he pressed. "What can I _expect_?"

"He's a lot more emotional and less able to hide it."

That too had been expected. "So," he ventured. "Did you talk to him about the Kate thing?"

Dr. Cope's eyebrows raised slightly at his question and finding himself the subject of her probing gaze, he immediately grew uncomfortable. Neal wasn't the only one who didn't like talking to shrinks; Peter had his own phobia in that area. Neal was a conman who lived his life behind a false face, a facade. He was probably afraid the right doctor would see right through him. Peter, on the other hand, had a very different reason for his fear. His father-in-law was a psychologist.

"I discussed several things with him," she replied. "Including the _Kate Thing."_

He could tell she hadn't liked his choice of words and in hindsight, it did sound insensitive. Now he felt _he_ was the one being assessed.

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he offered, hoping to smooth over the roughness of his words. "I just worry about bringing all that up again. He had a hard enough time getting past it the first time."

It had been difficult to see Neal so shaken yet determined to pretend he was fine. Peter tried to talk to him but to no avail, so he'd resorted to distraction. The cases he chose to pursue were the ones he thought would most interest Neal. He hoped if he kept his mind busy, it wouldn't have time to obsess over Kate's death and get him into trouble. But Neal was an expert multi-tasker; he managed both.

"Getting _past_ it isn't the same as working through it, Agent Burke," she told him. "Neal hasn't worked through his grief; he's just stuffed it down. I get the impression he would have struggled even if he hadn't been incarcerated and cut off from any emotional support." Peter still shuddered to imagine what that had been like. "I think that's the way he deals with emotions," she continued, "he denies and represses them. It's extremely unhealthy and doing that, keeping things all bottled up, takes an incredible amount of mental energy." She shook her head. "That's something he hasn't got right now. Those feelings are going to come out, Agent Burke, and he won't be able to stop them."

She was right; that was Neal's standard operating procedure and Peter too suspected it was a long-held one. He knew nothing about Neal's life before the forgery file crossed his desk and even then, what he knew was limited, more of a professional nature than a personal one. Information on Neal's younger years was non-existent and Neal was not inclined to shed any light on the topic. It wasn't a stretch to think he might have had a less than ideal childhood. What other things had Neal experienced and stuffed down? The thought of years of repressed feeling bubbling to the top, of the cork popping so to speak, was nothing less than terrifying.

He glanced in the direction of Neal's room. "I have to tell you, Dr. Cope, that scares me to death."

Her face softened. "I understand," she replied. "But it scares him _more_. Go see him," she encouraged. "He could use a friend."

Peter nodded and, feeling his stomach tighten in fear of what was ahead, not only now but for the days to come, started down the hallway.

"Oh," Dr. Cope added suddenly, causing Peter to turn back. "A word of advice?"

"Sure," he answered, fully aware he was going to get it either way.

"If you're going to help Neal deal with _his_ _Kate Thing_ , you might need to first sort out your own."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter entered to find Neal curled up in the bed, his back to the door and only a tuff of dark hair showing from beneath the blanket.

"Neal?" he said tentatively, keeping his voice low as he crossed the room. "You awake?"

The doctor hadn't been gone from the room more than ten minutes and Peter found it hard to believe Neal could already be asleep but there was no movement, nor reply to his question. He reached the bed and stood there, noting the rise and fall of the still body beneath the blanket. It wasn't the slow, deep breaths of slumber. It was shallow rapid ones. Neal wasn't asleep; he was just pretending to be.

Peter instinctively reached down to shake him, to call him on it but stopped, instead resting his hand gently on Neal's arm. Maybe he should let the act of deception go without challenge. As Neal's handler, he never did that but he wasn't here as Neal's handler; he was there as his friend.

And maybe a _friend_ would respect Neal's wishes to be left alone and save the conversation for tomorrow.

After a moment of indecision, Peter made his decision. If Neal needed time, he'd give it to him. After all, it was getting late and both of them might feel better prepared after a night's sleep. With a sigh, he retracted his hand.

"See you tomorrow then," he said almost under his breath, then turned to go. He'd only made it halfway to the door when Neal's voice stopped him.

" _Peter."_ Neal had rolled onto his back and was now repositioning himself on the pillows. Peter moved back to his bedside.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said knowing full well he hadn't.

"It's okay," Neal replied, dropping his eyes briefly. "Did you make your calls?"

"Yeah," Peter told him. "Everyone's glad you're awake. June and El with probably be down to fawn over you first thing in the morning."

"Maybe I can get June to bring me a change of clothes," he ventured with a faint smile. "I'm not a fan of hospital fashion."

"It's not a Devore," he joked, his eyes taking in Neal's rather odd apparel. "I'll give you that."

Neal's face drew in concern. "What was I wearing?"

"What?"

" _In the accident_ ," Neal clarified, his look of distress intensifying. "What did I have on? Please tell me it wasn't the _Devore._ "

Peter looked at him in disbelief. Of all the questions he'd expected for Neal to ask about the accident, what he'd been wearing had never entered his mind.

"I have no idea, Neal," he replied. "I wasn't there when Agent Rice picked you up." Even if he had been, he doubted Neal's wardrobe choice of the day would have stuck in his mind. "What difference does it make?" he continued. "A suit's a suit; just be glad you're alive to wear another one."

To his surprise, Neal's eyes suddenly flooded with tears. He'd been warned Neal was emotional but he hadn't expected it over such an innocuous subject as clothing.

"It's not just a _suit_ ," Neal protested hotly, reaching up to wipe his eyes impatiently. "It was Byron's favorite; it's _June's_ favorite."

Peter knew Neal was fond of the Devore but he'd attributed it to the vanity of name recognition. He didn't know there was another, more personal reason he attached such value to it.

"Oh," Peter replied with new understanding. "I didn't know." The bag containing Neal's belongings was at his house. He'd taken out the cell phone and wallet but the clothes he'd left undisturbed. "I have them at home, Neal," he offered. "I'll check when I get there."

"Thanks," Neal mumbled, redness creeping into his cheeks. "But why do you have them?"

"St. George's gave me your stuff when you were moved here," Peter explained. "They didn't want them lost in the shuffle. I put your phone and wallet in your desk at work but everything else is still in the bag."

"Was my hat there?"

Peter thought they'd moved on but apparently not. He shook his head. "No hat."

"Then maybe I wasn't wearing the Devore," Neal speculated thoughtfully. "I always wear the fedora with it." Just because the hat wasn't included with his things didn't mean Neal hadn't been wearing it at the time of the accident. It wouldn't likely have stayed on his head and could very well be blowing around some part of the upstate. Peter knew that and any other time, Neal would have too. But since it gave him comfort and his tears had receded, Peter saw no reason to point it out. "But look when you get home," Neal added. "Just to be sure."

"I will," Peter promised. "But even if it is, Neal, June's not going to care. You know you're a lot more important to her than a suit. Even the Devore. If you'd woke up half an hour earlier," he offered. "She could have told you that herself. She was with you most of the afternoon."

"I wish I had," Neal said quietly. "Agent _Rice_ was here when I woke up."

Peter hated it had happened that way. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry about that. I should have been here."

"It's okay, Peter, I just don't understand why _she_ was." His eyes searched for an answer. "What was she doing here?"

"She was just checking in," Peter explained. "She's been worried just like the rest of us."

"About me?" Neal snorted. "She hates me, Peter. You know that."

Peter didn't think Agent Rice had ever _hated_ Neal, she just hadn't seen him as anything but a means to an end. But recent events had forced her to see him differently.

"No, she doesn't." He knew Neal didn't remember the accident, didn't remember what he'd done, but he'd assumed someone, either Dr. Adams or Dr. Cope, would have told him by now. "You saved her life, Neal. Didn't anyone _tell_ you?"

"They said I got her out of the car but anyone would have done that," he said dismissively. "It's not a big deal."

So he _did_ know. But he wasn't acting the way Peter had expected him to. Neal loved praise, loved recognition. This was a perfect and even well-deserved chance for him to shine.

Yet he didn't seem to _want_ to shine.

"But it wasn't _anyone_ , Neal it was _you_ ," he reminded, surprised at the young man's newfound humility.

Neal's pale face flushed. "So _that's_ it," he said sharply, eyes flashing. "I'm a criminal, so _me_ doing something any decent person would have done _is_ a big deal." Blindsided for the second time, Peter just stared at him. "I get it," Neal added, looking away as if to signal an end to the exchange.

Although as a rule Neal kept his feelings tamped down, the one that most often broke through his walls was anger. And when that happened, Peter had come to understand the outburst was usually fueled more by hurt than actual fury. This, he felt sure, was no different. Sometimes it took time to ferret out the real issue but over time, Peter had gotten pretty good at it.

"That's not what I meant, Neal," Peter said as he studied the top of the now bowed head. "I just meant you were the one there, the one who risked your life to save _two people_." Neal gave no response, keeping his eyes downcast. "Look at me, Neal. _Neal_ ," Peter repeated more sharply at Neal's failure to comply. Neal raised his head and when he did, Peter saw the anger had drained leaving a gleam of hurt tears in its place. "Not just anyone would have done that," he insisted. "Witnesses at the scene, people who don't know a thing about you except for what they saw you do, called you a hero."

"But you _do_ know me," Neal replied, meeting his eyes doubtfully. "You know I'm no hero." In spite of syntactic form, Peter knew it was a question; Neal wanted to know what he thought, how he viewed what he'd done.

Neal did like praise and recognition but Peter knew he liked it most when he came from him. It had been that way since the beginning. For whatever reason, even as a criminal, Neal had wanted to impress him, if not by his morality, by the unwavering nerve and sheer brilliance of his crimes. Of course, Peter hadn't seen it that way until Elizabeth pointed out that Neal's antics seemed geared more to impress than insult. And the other things, the small pieces of art and postcards that arrived mysteriously in the mail, hot coffee, pizza, even champagne delivered to agents on surveillance, things Peter had seen as taunts, seemed to her more like Neal trying to connect with him or a more personal level.

"But why would he do that?" Peter had asked, trying to ignore the ring of truth in her words. "Geez. El, I'm the Federal Agent _chasing_ him. The only time we're going to _connect on a personal level_ is when I cuff him and take him in. That makes _no_ sense."

"I don't know, Peter," she'd replied. "He's young, all alone and always running. Maybe he just wishes things could be different."

As he'd predicted, his first personal contact with Neal was when he'd arrested him. Neal had shaken his hand and _thanked him._ It had seemed like the end of their journey, but it had just been the beginning. Four years later, Peter would facilitate the most unorthodox work release arrangement the FBI had ever entered and gain the best CI he'd ever worked with.

If Neal had wished for things to be different, he'd gotten his wish. He was now a part of the very team he'd spent years running from and did exceptional work for them. Though Peter wasn't exactly generous with praise when he did give it, Neal positively beamed with pride. He _needed_ approval; especially from him. And that was what he wanted now.

"That's not true," he said firmly. "I've seen the chances your willing to take to help someone in trouble, Neal. Even a homeless man with a sick dog. You risked your life to help June's granddaughter, to save Lindsey Gless. Your one of the bravest men I've ever known. What you did after that accident didn't surprise me; it wouldn't surprise anyone who really knew you."

"You mean that?" Neal's voice shook as tears finally escaped his eyes.

"Yeah I mean it," Peter told him. "I'm proud of you, Neal."

"I just wish...I could... _remember_." Neal's voice hitched as his tears gained momentum. "It's like people...are talking...about someone else."

"It's okay, Neal," Peter said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "It's gonna get better. Just try to relax."

"I'm... _sorry_ ," Neal whispered, unable to stop his tears or the sobs now accompanying them. "I...can't... _help_ it," he added desperately, "I can't... _stop_."

Neal's distress was palpable, a mix of shame and panic in his eyes as he spiraled out of control. Peter didn't know why he was crying and he had a feeling that Neal didn't know, either. He'd stuffed so much for so long, and now, just as Dr. Cope had warned, it was coming out and he was powerless to stop it.

 _He could use a friend._

"It's okay," Peter said again, this time slipping his arm behind Neal and pulling him forward. There was a look of uncertainty and a moment of resistance before Neal gave in, letting Peter pull him into a gentle hug. Sometimes, it took more than just words, it took action. "You don't have to stop," he said softly as Neal continued to sob brokenly into his shirt front. "Just cry until you're done, Neal."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

Peter lay there, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of Elizabeth breathing beside him. He was exhausted but he couldn't sleep. He glanced at the alarm clock on the side table. 2 _:35 am_. Damn, he thought to himself, that was going to make for a long Thursday.

He'd stayed at the hospital until close to ten p.m. Just like he'd been told, Neal was a lot more emotional and a lot less able to hide it, something neither of them was unaccustomed to. He still wasn't sure what had prompted Neal's outpouring of emotion. All he did know was that Neal had sobbed inconsolably for a solid ten minutes before it began to subside. Finally, Neal pulled away, and Peter let him go.

Of course, the minute Neal disengaged the awkwardness between them set in.

"I'm sorry," Neal whispered hoarsely, his eyes on his hands which tightly gripped the blanket. He couldn't even look Peter in the face.

Peter, feeling equally uncomfortable, got to his feet, plucked the box of tissue from the bedside table and thrust it at Neal. "Don't worry about it."

"It's the concussion," Neal tried to explain, glancing up apologetically as he took the box. "It's just got me all..." Not finding a suitable adjective, he let it go unfinished, pulled several tissues free and dabbed at his nose.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter assured him, trying to get them back on solid ground. "Dr. Cope warned me that-" He stopped, instantly regretting his word choice when Neal's head shot up. The last thing he wanted to do was to set him off again. "I mean she said to expect you to be a little more emotional for a while, that's all."

He held his breath until Neal's expression indicated he'd adequated defused the situation. "This isn't _a little more emotional,_ " Neal protested, his voice strained. "This is a _problem,_ Peter. I can't..." Even as he spoke, tears again began to form in his eyes. " _Damn it_ ," he swore softly, wiping his eyes in frustration. "I _hate t_ his."

Peter sympathized with Neal's plight. He could only imagine how hard it would be to feel exposed, vulnerable, and out of control. He put a hand on Neal's shoulder as a show of support. "I know you do, Neal, but it's temporary." He really hoped he wasn't lying. "Like I said, you just have to give it time."

Neal nodded but it took him a moment to form a verbal response. "I know. But Peter," he began, a hint of desperation in his eyes. "I don't want anyone to see me like this. Tell Elizabeth and June not to come."

Again, if Neal's mind were functioning at full capacity, he'd know wild horses wouldn't keep those two away.

"I'll tell them," Peter said, omitting the futility of it. Neal seemed satisfied with his answer.

"Thanks," he said wearily, leaning against the pillow. Emotions had taken more out of him than a ten-mile run. He looked exhausted.

"You're welcome," Peter said, picking his jacket up from the back of the chair. It had been a long day. He was pretty spent himself. "I'm sorry I woke you up." He slipped on his jacket. "Try to get some sleep."

"I will," Neal said, pulling the blanket up a few inches. "Good night, Peter."

He looked like a kid, tucked in for the night. It felt like an episode of _The Walton_ s. _Goodnight John Boy._

"Good night, Neal." He picked up his briefcase. "I'll check in tomorrow."

"Okay." Again he was almost to the door when Neal stopped him. "You didn't really wake me up."

Peter turned, surprised yet pleased with the unexpected confession. "I know."

"You _do_?" He tried not to grin at the look on Neal's face.

"Your breathing was all wrong. I knew you were faking."

There was a moment of stunned silence. "And you let me by with it?"

"Just this once," Peter said with mock sternness, "so don't get used to it."

" _Correction_ ," Neal continued, his expression softening into one of curiosity. "You were going to let me _think_ I got by with it."

Peter knew that was even harder to believe; _that_ was a matter of _pride._

"Yeah, I was," Peter admitted. "And look at you," he grinned. " _Confessing_."

Neal's face brightened with a grin of his own. "Well, don't get used to _that_ , either."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

He arrived home about 11:30 and of course, Elizabeth was still up, waiting to make sure he ate and to get the details of his afternoon. He'd told her earlier about Neal's return to consciousness, but a lot had happened since then. He sat down with a reheated bowl of stew and filled her in. He told her about his meeting with Dr. Cope, what she'd said about signing Neal's release and also her professional opinion on what his emotional state was likely to be over the next days and possibly even weeks. He'd hoped she was wrong, that she was giving him the worst case scenario. But once he saw Neal for himself, saw the state he was in, he feared her predictions were correct.

Elizabeth listened as he recounted the visit, how Neal's emotions had been all over the place and that the simplest thing had either sparked his anger or brought him to tears. He also confessed that finally Neal had succumbed to his tears and broken down and, at a loss as to what to do to help, he'd just held him and let him cry.

The only thing more unbelievable than him pulling Neal into a hug was the fact that Neal had let him and Elizabeth knew it. He could tell by her face.

"Wow," she'd commented. "That was a breakthrough. For _both_ of you."

"It was more desperation than anything else," he replied, getting to his feet. "I didn't know what else to do." He took his empty bowl into the kitchen and deposited it in the sink. "He cried a long time, El," he continued. "I don't even know what about."

"Well, whatever it was," she said, flipping off the kitchen light after Peter exited. "It was something he needed to get out. And you _let_ him." She reached down and squeezed his hand. "I'm proud of you, Peter."

Neal wasn't the only person who liked positive reinforcement; Peter enjoyed it too. Especially when it came from Elizabeth.

"Thanks," he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. "I was just channeling my inner Mrs. Burke."

Exhausted not only from the day but from the stress of the past nine, the two of them went upstairs and fell into bed. El had dropped off to sleep quickly. He, on the other hand, hadn't been so lucky.

At first, it was because he was trying to make a plan for the next few weeks. He didn't want to overload Neal, he knew it would take awhile for him to get back to form, but he also wanted to keep him working. Coming into the office could be problematic given Neal's overly emotional state, so letting him work from the apartment seemed like a good compromise.

With that settled in his mind, he moved into replaying his afternoon at the hospital and more specifically, his conversation with Dr. Cope.

He'd told Elizabeth what the doctor had said about Neal, but he hadn't told her what he'd said about him.

 _If you're going to help Neal deal with his Kate Thing, you might need to first sort out your own._

He'd blown it off at the time. He didn't have a Kate Thing. He just hadn't liked the woman, hadn't liked the way she played with Neal's emotions. Simple as that. But the fact that the doctor's words kept coming to mind and thwarting sleep told him she might have been on to something. He hadn't told Dr. Cope much about Kate or anything about his feelings toward her, but just his reference to her death as the _Kate Thing_ had indicated to her that he had a problem.

So that was what he found himself doing in the middle of the night; trying to sort out his feelings about Kate Moreau's death.

He knew he felt a certain level of guilt because he hadn't liked her and had wanted her out of Neal's life. He also felt partially responsible for what happened because he hadn't helped Neal find her. If he had, maybe her life wouldn't have come to such an abrupt and fiery end. Neal had told him she was in danger, in need of rescue, but he'd refused to listen. Instead, he'd dangled a promise of assistance in front of Neal like a carrot to motivate him to work harder for the Bureau.

It was the realization that Kate wasn't the only one who used Neal for personal gain that made Peter look closer at some of his own actions. He had done the same thing. Neal's capture had been a personal and professional victory, a testament to his skill as an investigator as well as a profiler. It had been a source of pride, the way he'd found a weakness, as far as he could tell Neal's _only_ weakness, and exploited it to finally bring the young criminal to justice. Four years later, he used the same weakness to catch Neal again and this time, ultimately, to _control_ him.

And unfortunately, the similarities didn't stop there. He'd claimed he wanted Kate out of Neal's life because he didn't like the way she played with his emotions but the truth was he hadn't wanted the competition. He didn't want anyone, not Kate or Mozzie, exercising more influence and control over Neal than him. He'd played with Neal's feelings, too. He knew Neal wanted to please him, wanted his approval, and he capitalized on that as well. He told himself that he was just doing his job and that Neal had known what he was signing up for.

The truth was Peter hadn't known what he was signing up for. He didn't know working with Neal day after day would change things, would make him question his methods. Neal was smart, and Peter liked smart, but he found he liked more about Neal than just his brilliant mind. He like his wit, his sense of humor and his surprisingly generous heart. Over time, he found he was becoming invested in Neal, not just as an asset but as a person. Almost as a friend.

But he still had a job to do. He wasn't supposed to be Neal's friend; he was his handler. It was his responsibility to keep him in line and on task. When Neal needed pressure applied to motivate him or maneuver him into the appropriate mindset, it was his job to apply it. He justified his actions by telling himself that for good or bad, his career and Neal's future were intrinsically connected. The arrangement was only good as long as Neal delivered measurable results to the Bureau. It was in both of their best interests to make sure he did just that.

Had Kate found ways to justify her actions? Had she told herself what she was doing was best for both she and Neal?

He hadn't liked Kate, had wanted her out of Neal's life and hadn't shed a tear when she'd died. He'd thought those facts, in addition to some underlying feelings of guilt regarding her death, was the source of any _Kate Thing_ he might have.

But that wasn't it. He knew that now. It wasn't about Kate at all; it was about _him._ He'd read once that the thing you disliked most in others was just a reflection of what you disliked most about yourself. When he'd looked at Kate, he'd seen a part of himself he hadn't liked and wasn't proud of. The part of him that had used Neal to bolster the White Collar Division and in the process, his own career.

He didn't have a Kate Thing; he had a _Peter Thing._

He had adjusted the way he dealt with Neal after Kate's death. He tried to treat him less like a criminal on work release and more like a partner, a team member. Neal _did_ want to please him and also liked feeling like he was a part of the team. Peter found those feelings provided far better motivation than threats or intimidation.

Even though he and Neal's personal relationship had grown and changed since then, their professional relationship had remained the same. Neal was still an asset, and he was still his handler. There were times when he would be required to do just that, _handle_ Neal, and by any means necessary.

That was the Peter Thing; the regret and self-recrimination he felt about handling not a CI, but a _friend_.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

"So, they're letting you out of here, huh?"

Neal was surprised, and not pleasantly, to see Agent Rice, on crutches, making her way across the room. Peter had promised to fill him in on his missing week, but so far he hadn't had a chance. Neal still didn't know what series of unfortunate events had put him on a trip to Albany with Agent Rice, but he did know how their journey had ended; with a crash and a _bang._

A car had crossed the center line in a curve on the Taconic Parkway and slammed into them. Agent Rice had sustained a minor concussion and a compound fracture of the tibia; he had a torn eardrum, some minor burns on his hands and arm, and a grade three concussion. The concussion, the doctor said, was the reason for his retrograde amnesia. The reason for his extended state of unconsciousness was a little more complicated.

The last thing he remembered _before_ the accident was the mid-morning coffee run on Monday, ten days ago. The first thing he remembered _afterward_ was waking up in the hospital yesterday afternoon. His recollection of his first moments of consciousness was garbled but two things he remembered clearly; he'd been in tears, and Agent Rice had been there. The evening had not improved from there. He'd talked with a doctor about his physical injuries, a psychologist about his mental state and then finished the day in rare form, crying like a baby in Peter's arms.

He hadn't seen Peter since but he had seen Elizabeth. She'd shown up in his room bright and early, a floral arrangement in one hand and a duffle with clothes from his apartment in the other. She said nothing about the events of the preceding night and neither did he. He didn't know if Peter hadn't told her or if she was just too polite to bring it up. Though he said he didn't want visitors, he had to admit the fresh boxers and pajamas she brought him had been welcome. He did okay but her visit wasn't very long; it was cut short by the arrival of Dr. Hamm, the neurologist. The only time he'd felt tears sting his eyes was when Elizabeth had hugged, right before she left.

After her departure, the doctor tried to offer words of encouragement. "Don't sweat it," he said. "It's normal after a head injury."

"Well I have a life to live," Neal snapped irritably. "A _job_ to do," frustration elevated his voice, "and I can't do that if can't keep it together more than five minutes at a time!" Dr. Hamm said just looked at him. "Sorry," Neal mumbled, his face flushing.

"It's okay, Mr. Caffrey," the doctor replied. "I know this is hard. It's going to get better but it's going to take time." Neal clenched his jaws, determined not to erupt if the man told him he had to be patient. But he didn't.

"Have you ever been given a neuro exam before?" he asked instead, opening a folder he'd brought in with him.

Neal felt a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach. "I don't think so."

"They're always administered in cases of head trauma," he explained, "just to make sure there are no underlying issues. It takes awhile but it's not painful. Ready?"

Not really, Neal thought, but it was one step closer to him being discharged. "Ready as I'm ever going to be."

The exam had taken both time and energy, and after forcing down a less than appetizing lunch, Neal had drifted off to sleep. Two hours later he'd awakened feeling refreshed and in a surprisingly better mood. The ache in his head had almost entirely subsided, he'd already had the privilege of a shower, and now he was able to trade in the hospital gown for his own blue silk pajamas. Even though he didn't remember it, he had done a good thing, something people thought heroic, something that had made Peter say he was proud of him.

Of course, the memory of what happened after Peter had told him that somewhat dampened his spirits but they rose again just before dinner when Dr. Adams informed him his test were all normal and he would be released as soon as his discharge papers were processed. Agent Burke had been notified and would be over directly after work. The paperwork, however, was not likely to be as expedient. After the doctor left, Neal changed out of the blue silk pajamas and into the going home outfit Elizabeth had brought. In a pair of khakis and a red polo, he repacked the duffle as he waited.

For paperwork, the discharge instructions, and his ride. That is what he was doing when Agent Rice arrived.

He'd _cried_ in front of her, which was the reason his breath caught in his chest at the _sight_ of her.

Of course, he'd cried in front of Peter, too, but Peter was his handler, his co-worker and there was no avoiding him. Agent Rice, on the other hand, rarely ventured into the White Collar offices and therefore should have been _completely_ avoidable.

Yet here she was.

"Yeah," he responded. "I'm just waiting on the paperwork. And a ride." He tried to keep his voice light, but his fingers fumbled as he shoved pajamas into the bag. "What brings you to Bellevue?"

"Well, I heard you were being released and I thought I'd..." Her pause prompted him to look up.

"Thought you'd what?" he asked curiously, surprised to see that she looked as awkward as he felt. "Check up on me? Offer me a ride?"

"It's not my job to check up on you, Caffrey," she said gruffly, her cheeks coloring slightly. "And I'm not _about_ to get into a car with you again. I just wanted to stop by and...well, you know..," she faltered, her face now positively flaming, " _thank_ you."

Peter said she had been worried but Neal had found that hard to believe. Even if she had been, the moment he was awake she had made a hasty exit. But now she was back, this time to _thank him_. Any other time he would have enjoyed watching her stumble over her pride, her face red in humiliation at having to thank him for something. But, having been on the other side of that emotion a lot lately, he felt sympathy instead.

"You're welcome."

"That's it?" She clearly had expected something different from him. "No _I told you so_ or anything?"

He frowned. "Why would I say that?"

"Because you _told_ me I'd thank you and I told _you_ -" She stopped herself, a look of understanding in her eyes. "You still don't remember, do you?"

Neal shook his head. "Nope, still a blank."

"So," she ventured, watching him doubtfully, "do you even know _why_ I was thanking you?"

"I figured it was for getting you out of the car," he said. "Peter told me about it."

"But you still don't remember doing it." He couldn't tell if she thought that was a good thing or a bad one.

"No," he said, zipping the bag closed. "I wish I did." He didn't mean to sound wistful but he did. "So how's the leg?"

"Irritating as hell," she replied. "Slows me down and people are always in my way. So what exactly did Agent Burke tell you _?_ "

"About what?"

"The _accident_ , Caffrey," she clarified impatiently. "What else?"

"Just that I got you and the other guy out," he answered with equal impatience. "We haven't had much of a chance to talk, Agent Rice. He's been at work and I've been...well, _unconscious_."

"Funny, Caffrey." She sounded less than amused. "I just wondered how much he'd told you about what happened."

Neal frowned, trying to remember what he had been told and wondering what difference it made to her.

"Not much," he replied after a moment. "Just that we were on the way to Albany, there was an accident and I got you out of the car."

"It all happened so fast," she recounted. "I came around a curve and there was a car in my lane. Next thing I knew I was waking up, there was smoke everywhere and you were gone."

Neal felt a sinking feeling. "What do you mean I was _gone_?"

"You weren't in the car," she explained. "You'd gotten out and was coming around to my door but I didn't know that."

"You thought I'd run." Of course, she'd think that. After all, he was a criminal and that's what criminals did.

"Yeah I did," she admitted reluctantly, "but then there you were, all dazed and bloody yourself, asking me if I was hurt." Her brow furrowed. "My legs were pinned but you moved the seat back and got me out."

That must have been how her leg had been broken.

"I _carried_ you, didn't I?" he asked, remembering not just what he'd been told but the dream where Kate had transformed into Agent Rice. "Away from the car?"

"You _remember_?" There was a hopeful lilt in her voice.

"No...not really," he confessed. "I think I _dreamed_ about it."

"Well," she began after a slight delay, "dream or not that's what you did and if you _hadn't..."_ She stopped _,_ her voice suddenly choked with emotion. "I wouldn't _be_ here," she managed to finish. "You saved my life, Neal."

Caught off guard by her display of emotion and already on shaky ground himself, Neal felt his own begin to stir.

"It's okay," he said, feeling the familiar tightening in his throat. "It's not a..." He'd been about to say it wasn't a big deal but _that_ seemed wrong. "I mean, I'm just..." he stopped again, horrified by the unsteadiness of his voice. "Please, Agent Rice," he said desperately, his eyes beginning to sting. "You already _thanked_ me."

"I'm sorry," she responded awkwardly, her voice still husky with emotion. "I didn't mean to get all... _you know_... _mushy_. I just wanted... _needed_ to get that off my chest."

Neal appreciated what she'd said but, precariously close to being mushy himself, he just needed for her to go. He had to get himself under control before Peter's arrival. The last thing he needed a repeat performance of the night before.

"I understand," he replied, hoping to hasten her departure. "And now you have. Thanks for coming by, Agent Rice."

"One more thing before I go," she said, having picked up on his less than subtle hint. "I owe you an apology, too."

Curiosity trumped his impatience. "For _what?_ "

"For calling you a tool in my belt." That was unexpected. It took him a moment to respond.

"Oh, _that_." He tried to shrug it off, but the truth was that comment had stuck with him, leaving a bitterness that time hadn't erased.

"It was rude and unfair," she stated without excuse. "I'd made my mind up about you before I ever _met_ you. That was wrong, _I was wrong,"_ she stressed, a tremor in her voice. _"_ I misjudged you, Neal, and I'm sorry."

Her heartfelt thanks had surprised him, but this equally sincere apology left him stunned. He stood there, once more on the brink of tears, at a complete loss for words. Agent Rice looked as shook up as he felt and he swallowed hard, desperate to regain control over his unruly emotions. There was so much going on in his head, in his heart, even if he knew what to say he wouldn't have trusted his voice to say it.

As if that wasn't bad enough, _Peter_ was here. There would be no intermission, no time to regroup.

"Everything okay?" Peter asked, looking from Neal to Agent Rice.

Neal guessed the emotional tension in the room was palpable. Agent Rice found her voice first.

"Everything's fine, Agent Burke," she answered hastily. "I was just leaving." She met his eyes. "Take care of yourself, Caffrey."

He'd been Neal, but now he was Caffrey. Agent Rice had pulled herself together at record speed.

He tried to follow suit. "You _too_ , Agent Rice."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty One**

Peter hurried across the lobby to the elevator, hoping he hadn't delayed leaving the office so long that Neal had begun to doubt he was coming. He kicked himself for his procrastination. He could have left the office the minute the nurse had called, but he hadn't. The discharge process had been started, but she assured him it wasn't wasn't typically a speedy one so waiting until after work wasn't a problem. However, when five o'clock arrived, he found himself dragging his feet, answering just one more email, sorting just one more file. He realized then it wasn't his workload keeping him from leaving; it was the dread of what emotional confrontations with Neal might lay ahead

Dr. Cope said Neal repressed his feelings, stuffed them down and denied them but now, at least for awhile, he wouldn't be able to do that. The thought of Neal's repressed emotions coming to the surface had worried Peter but when he'd left the hospital the night before, he had been hopeful he could help Neal weather whatever storms lay ahead. But later, after a night of soul-searching, of sorting through his own _Kate Thing_ , Peter had begun to have second thoughts about how much help he could be.

It was no wonder Neal hadn't opened up to him after her death, hadn't wanted to confide in him. He had to have been angry, resentful even, that he hadn't taken his concerns seriously, hadn't helped him find her in the first place. Peter's mind went back to the day that, after five weeks, he'd gotten cleared to see Neal. He'd presented him with an offer to resume their arrangement, to get out of prison orange and back into a suit. Peter had thought Neal would be happy, would jump at the opportunity, but he hadn't. Instead, he'd asked for time to think it over. Peter hadn't understood Neal's hesitancy at the time, but now he did.

His emotional state that day had to have been fragile. He'd watched Kate die, had been sent to prison and then subjected to seventy-two hours of suicide watch protocol. One FBI agent had kidnapped Kate and sent her to her death; another had refused to help him save her. The fact that Neal had been able to sit across from him and joke about ties and coffee was a testament to just how good he was hiding his feelings. That kind of control took great mental strength and that was something Neal didn't have right now.

Unfortunately, he doubted Kate was the only thing Neal harbored anger or resentment about. There were probably scores of others and anyone of them could lead to an emotionally volatile Neal Caffrey. What would he do if Neal lashed out at him? How would he respond to his anger? His instinct would be to meet Neal's anger with anger of his own but he knew that wasn't the right course of action. This wasn't Neal being difficult; this was Neal vulnerable and unable to hide his feelings. If Neal lashed out, he needed to listen, let him air his grievances and remain calm. Could he do that? Could he withstand Neal's anger and keep his own at bay? Even if he did, once the words were said, could they ever move on and put it behind them? He simply didn't know.

It was those thoughts, those concerns, playing in the back of his mind over the course of the day that had caused a sense of dread to settle over him.

At 5:20, he'd packed up his briefcase and cleared his desk. He'd said he would be there for Neal and for better or worse, that was what he was going to do.

Peter saw Neal first, standing by the bed with a distressed look on his face but when he shifted his gaze to Agent Rice, he saw she looked as upset as he did. He hadn't heard them arguing when he entered and they didn't seem to be angry but there was a noticeable tension in the air. He'd arrived late and didn't know what he'd walked into the middle of but he knew it was _something._

"Everything okay?" he asked, looking from one overwrought face to the other. There was a moment's lag before anyone answered.

"Everything's fine, Agent Burke." Agent Rice's voice was low and her eye contact brief. "I was just leaving." She looked again at Neal. "Take care of yourself, Caffrey."

"You too, Agent Rice," Neal replied, his voice equally unsteady.

With a departing nod at Peter, Agent Rice clamored quickly past and out the door.

"What was that about?" Peter asked, moving across the room. Whatever it was, it had affected them both. Agent Rice had looked on the verge of tears and Neal looked the same. Peter had hoped twenty-four hours would have steadied Neal's emotions a bit but apparently, it had not. "You alright?"

Neal clearly wasn't alright and given his diminished ability to pretend he was, Peter thought he might just tell him the truth.

But he didn't.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he returned instead, still unwilling to meet his eyes. He started towards the restroom. "Excuse me a minute, Peter."

Again Peter was struck by the similar defensive mechanisms of Agent Rice and Neal. Agent Rice had responded to his inquiry the same way, saying everything was fine when it obviously wasn't then bolted for the door, eager to get away from the situation. Neal had in essence done the very same thing but since he could go nowhere without Peter, his escape was much more limited.

After about half a minute after Neal had closed himself up in the small lavatory, Peter heard the water being turned on, running briefly, then being shut off. A half minute later, Neal emerged, his face wet as were the tendrils of dark hair framing it. He'd tried to pull himself together and had marginal success.

"Fine, huh?"

Neal finally met his eyes, his posture sagging ever so slightly at the question. "Not really," he admitted wearily, "but I will be when I get out of here. Can you see what the hold up is?" he asked. "They still haven't brought the paperwork."

"I stopped by the nurses' desk on my way in," Peter told him. "They were just finishing it up." He nodded at the chair by the bed he'd occupied so often of late. "Why don't you sit down? You look about ready to drop." He was mildly surprised when Neal took his suggestion and sank into the chair.

"So what did Agent Rice want?" Peter asked, leaning against the bed.

"Nothing," Neal replied. "She came by to thank me," his tone was one of disbelief, "and to say she was sorry for _misjudging me._ "

Peter knew he'd walked into an emotionally charged situation and now he understood why. Agent Rice had been upset after the accident but Peter figured once the shock wore off, and the painkillers, she'd forget both her gratitude and her remorse. But he had been wrong. She not only had thanked Neal for saving her life, but she'd also swallowed her pride and apologized to him as well.

"Wow," he said quietly. "That couldn't have been easy for her. No wonder she looked so shaken up when I came in. You _both_ did."

"I just didn't expect...I wasn't _prepared_ for that." Agent Rice's gesture not only had surprised Neal it had touched him as well.

"I guess not," Peter commented. "But it was the right thing for her to do, Neal. You did save her life."

"She asked me if I remembered doing it," he said after a moment. "I told her I didn't but now I'm not so sure."

"Is it starting to come back?" Peter asked hopefully. "The doctor said that it might."

"No," Neal said hesitantly. "It's not like that."

Peter frowned, confused by the look of apprehension on Neal's face. He knew the accident had been a traumatic experience but Neal had acted heroically, had saved _two_ lives. Just the night before, he'd said he wished he could remember. But now, for some reason, the thought of remembering was causing him anxiety.

"Okay," Peter prompted, becoming a bit hesitant himself. "What _is_ it like then?"

Again Neal hesitated, a conflicted look on his face. Peter wasn't sure if he was struggling with what to say or whether to say it at all. Either way, he could tell there was an inner debate going on behind his blue eyes.

Peter knew Neal was often at odds with himself over what he should or should not do. Neal was brilliant and opportunities to run a con or to make a quick score likely presented themselves on a regular basis. The temptation to revert to his former ways, sometimes in the form of a small bespeckled man, was a constant companion. When things were slow at the office, when day after day was spent sifting through mortgage fraud or other equally dull cases, Peter knew Neal contemplated more exciting, less legal, ways to spend his time. So far, for the most part, Neal had kept to the straight and narrow but there were firm boundaries in place to keep him there. Peter hoped when the time came that he was no longer bound by a tracking device, their friendship would be enough to keep him close and on the right path.

 _That_ was an inner debate he wished Neal would let him be part of.

"It was more like a _dream_ than a memory," Neal finally managed, meeting Peter's eyes doubtfully. "But now I think it might have been _both."_ Anguish overshadowed his doubt. _"_ I thought I saved _Kate._ "

Neal's voice broke when he said her name, his eyes filling with tears. Peter felt a jolt, too, not of heartbreak but of alarm. Of all the topics he'd hoped to avoid, at least until Neal was emotionally more stable, Kate Moreau topped the list. Even in the best of times, it was a difficult subject and so far, he and Neal had handled it by _not_ handling it. Peter knew sooner or later it would probably come up but he'd sincerely hoped for later.

However, it was not to be. For better or worse, the time was now. He moved closer, placed his hand on Neal's shoulder and squeezed gently.

"You had a concussion, Neal," he said to the now bowed head. "It's understandable that things got mixed up in your head."

Head still down, Neal nodded. "It's just it seemed _real_." Peter could tell the tears had started to spill over. "One minute I was with her, I had her in my arms, and then..." Suddenly his voice hitched, his body spasming beneath Peter's hand. Realizing his tears were no longer silent, Neal leaned forward, bringing his hands up to cover his face.

Peter remembered the day Kate died, how broken and inconsolable Neal at been and then how shell shocked he'd looked when the Marshals had taken him away. Although the intake process would have been streamlined, Neal would still have been stripped and searched, fingerprinted and photographed and treated like a criminal instead of a person. After that unpleasant process, he'd been admitted to the prison infirmary and put on suicide watch. Neal had just watched the woman he loved die; he'd been heartbroken, grief-stricken and utterly alone.

But he wasn't alone now.

Peter released his grip on Neal's shoulder, knelt down in front of him and, just like the night before, pulled him forward into a hug. This time Neal offered no resistance, immediately wrapping his arms around Peter and burying his face in his chest. Peter's fear that he wouldn't be able to comfort Neal, that Neal wouldn't let him, melted away as he gently rocked back and forth, stroking the dark hair and offering whatever reassuring phrases came to mind.

After several minutes, Neal's crying grew less intense and finally ceased. Peter expected him to break the embrace but he didn't, he just shifted slightly, turning his head and resting his cheek against his chest. Lingering sobs still periodically pierced the silence, and even though Peter's knees were killing him, he wasn't going to be the one to pull away.

"I'm sorry for the delay, Mr. Caffrey, there was-" Having entered the room the nurse stopped, realizing she'd interrupted. Neal dropped his arms, a blush of color creeping into his cheeks and Peter, feeling the heat rise in his own face as well, quickly got to his feet.

"I'm sorry," she said again, looking from one to the other. "I have your discharge papers, Mr. Caffrey," she informed. "Do you want to go over them now or do you need a minute?"

Not wanting to delay his release by even a minute, Neal quickly got to his feet.

"No," he insisted. "I'm fine." It was Neal's standard, one-size-fits-all answer but his blotchy, tear-streaked face said otherwise. The skeptical arch of the nurse's eyebrow said as much. "At least I _will_ be," he amended, his cheeks again flushing. "When I get _home._ "

"I understand, Mr. Caffrey," she offered sympathetically. "These are pretty simple. We'll go over them and then you can be on your way."

With clipboard in hand, she began. She was right, it was pretty simple. Since his concussion had occurred over a week prior, there were few instructions. No medications were being prescribed and no dietary restrictions were being imposed. He wouldn't need constant supervision, Peter had to smile at the look Neal sent his way at that, but he should have a friend or family member check on him daily. He could begin resuming his normal activities at the first of the week, but she stressed the importance of taking things slowly. Doing too much too fast could cause symptoms to return. She finished up with a list of things that would signal possible problems and told him if they occurred, he should contact Dr. Adams or, if they were severe, call 911. He was scheduled for a follow-up appointment with Dr. Adams the following Friday afternoon at 1:15 and Dr. Cope had included her contact information in case he wished to follow up with her as well.

"Do you have any questions?" She asked when she'd finished.

"Just one," Neal responded with a smile. "Where do I sign?"

Handing him a pen, she indicated a place on the paper. "Initial here. And here." She flipped the page over. "And _sign_ here."

"That's it," she said, removing the sheets from the clipboard and extricating his copies. She handed one set to Neal and reattached the other. "If you have questions later, or if there are any problems, don't hesitate to call. I'll have the orderly bring a wheelchair." She looked at Peter. "You can bring your car around to the visitor loading zone. Just pull under the awning."

Unfortunately, the awkwardness that had arrived with the nurse did not leave with her. Once they were alone, Peter could feel the tension in the room. Neal was quiet, uncomfortable, and uncertain as to what to do to alleviate that, Peter decided to give him some space.

"I'll just go down and get the car," Peter said a bit gruffly, breaking the silence.

He reached over to get Neal's bag but just as his hand closed around the strap, Neal's hand closed around his. Surprized, Peter looked up.

Blue eyes met his. " _Thanks,_ Peter," Neal said softly, the sincerity of his gratitude without question. "For _everything_."

Neal had been trying to manage his unruly emotions. Anytime they'd overwhelmed him, anytime he had expressed genuine feelings through word or tear, it had been with him fighting against it every step of the way. But this time was different. This time Neal wasn't fighting, wasn't trying to hide, press down or conceal his feelings. This time he was expressing them of his own free will.

Neal had been on the verge tears since he'd awakened the day before and now, seeing the openness in Neal's eyes, Peter found himself facing the same difficulty. He held Neal's gaze, doing his best to drop his own defenses so Neal could see the truth and know he understood.

Neal wasn't thanking him for taking his bag down or getting the car but for something much more meaningful to both of them.

 _Friendship._

"You're _welcome,_ Neal."

 _The end_


End file.
